


Ficlets

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I just want everything in one place, Kissing, Light Angst, Like a bunch of them, Little bit of domesticity, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, little bit of alternate universe, little bit of teddy boys in love, lotta kissing, of many types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 22,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: a collection of all the prompts I've gotten on tumblr for short mclennon fanfics. it ranges from a whole lotta kissing prompts to whatever else your beautiful minds have come up with.





	1. Fluffy Teen McLennon

**Author's Note:**

> I initially wasn't gonna post my short tumblr works on here bc they're typically less than 500 words and I just wasn't sure it'd be worth it. but recently I've decided it'd be more convenient to have everything in one place for easier access or for people who don't follow my tumblr, and because now I've done so many I have a higher word count altogether. 
> 
> I'll post a different ficlet every chapter - none related to one another. (didn't wanna do a series bc that'd be too much clutter).
> 
> if you've already read some of these, welcome back! if you're one of the ones who left a request, thank you! and if you're new to these, happy reading!

“Do you really think this was the best way to find names?” Paul asks, running his eyes over the grey slabs and picking up pieces of life along the way. “I mean, couldn’t we just flip through the paper?”

John scoffs. “And take the lazy way out? Sometimes a good song means gettin’ yer hands dirty, love.” 

Dirty hands. Sinful hands. Paul knows a thing or two about those. 

Reflective, he reads over the headstones, looking for the lucky soul who gets a second chance at life through music. The cemetery is surrendering to dusk when John slips his fingers between Paul’s, silent. 

They finally dawdle to a stop beneath a towering oak, where the shade makes the stone nearly illegible. John knocks his boot against it and declares, “This one. She’s our gal.” He sits on the grass, colored brown from years of trampling feet. 

Paul follows after him. Follows and finds himself in the spread of John’s legs, back pressed snug to his chest. Arms wrap around his stomach and a chin perches on the curve of his shoulder and it’s amazing how much warmth can be found in a place so cold.

“Gertrude Sampson?” Paul asks, incredulous, reading the name John has deemed their new muse. “Why the fuck did you pick that?”

John laughs at his ear, shrugs. “Dunno, really. This secluded spot just seemed like the perfect place to steal you away to.” The smile turns into a kiss that finds home at the pulse of his neck. 

Paul turns his head, hides his own smile in the cool leather of John’s jacket as he hooks an arm around his neck. “Soft lad,” he whispers. Another kiss to his forehead.

For a couple of precious seconds, the wind whistles through the trees. Those busy city sounds seem miles away. The imminent knock of adulthood quietens beneath the sound of John’s steady breathing at his ear.

“This is where most secrets come to die,” John breaks the spell to say, to murmur into a sea of ebony hair. “But yours and mine? Funny how it gets a chance to live a little here.”

Something pulls at Paul’s heart. Something that has him drawing his hand into John’s hair, angling him down for a kiss. When their lips meet, music and love explodes beautifully behind his ribcage. He thinks maybe they don’t need tombstone names and expired lives to strengthen their songs. Maybe they have every missing note and lyric in the spaces between them.


	2. Showering in Rhapsodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hannah bear! So after much investigation (aka Pinterest) I have a flash fiction prompt! Modern day college AU where Mclennon live in the dorms and their showers are on opposite sides of the wall so they sing duets while showering <3"
> 
> \- amarielugama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have the American experience of college and I don't do much research for these ficlets, so just look past anything that may be off

Paul doesn’t mean for anyone to hear him, really. It’s late at night and he assumes the spray of the shower will drown out most of his solo “Bohemian Rhapsody” performance. A few moments later, however, when he’s passionately wishing he’d never been born at all, another voice joins in to recreate the famous guitar solo, a capella. 

Paul freezes at first, unaware someone had been showering in the next room over, but any embarrassment quickly ebbs in favor of the giggles that overcome him. 

“Well don’t stop now!” the voice on the opposite side of the wall calls.

With laughter replacing most of the lyrics, they continue the song together. Paul takes the high _Galileo_ ’s and the other bloke takes the low ones. Before the song is even finished, he’s doubled over against the shower wall with tears streaming down his face.

* * *

It happens again the next night. 

Paul would be lying if he said there wasn’t a rush of excitement through his blood when he hears the pipes next door creak to life. Before he can even reach the chorus of some modern, indie song, there’s a shout from the other side.

“Pick something else!”

“Why?” Paul calls back. 

“Cos I don’t know that one, do I?” The pound of the water makes it difficult to hear, and they’re probably disturbing their flatmates with the shouting, but Paul doesn’t really give a fuck.

“Well…any requests?” he asks, closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands through his soapy hair.

“I think we’re missing the perfect opportunity to belt out some ‘Africa’ here.”

Paul smiles to himself. Three songs later his hands are pruney and his throat is aching, but he decides to stay a little longer anyway. 

* * *

Admittedly, there’s a tug of disappointment on nights when Paul is left singing alone. No voice to harmonize with his own, no melody to flow freer than water between the pipes.

On those occasions he comes up with his own tunes to pass the time. Songwriting is still a new hobby for him—something he does between studies—but the nameless voice next door proves to be an apt partner. They start to make up their own songs, bounce lyrics off of each other like it’s a tennis match. Some are proper flops. Others are rather catchy considering the circumstances.

Despite it all being for a laugh, Paul sees potential in it.

* * *

Many nights and songs pass between them, until there’s finally a knock at Paul’s door on a Friday evening. When he opens it, there’s a boy wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a kind smile. His hair is damp at the tips, messy in all the right ways.

“I’m lookin’ for the bloke who’s into Queen and has the voice of an angel,” he says casually. “He happen to live here?”

Paul’s heart leaps in his chest. There’s no water and no music and no wall between them, but he doesn’t need any of that to know this voice. The one that has pulled countless songs from his lips. The one that laughs at him when his voice cracks on a high note.

“Depends what you want with ‘im.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I wanted to see if he’d like to go on a date.”

The one that makes it easy to smile and say, “Yeah, I think he’d like that a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ever I were to extend one of my ficlets into a chapter fic or one shot, I think it'd be this one that inspires me to do it. Soft Bois™ and uni life - im here for it all day


	3. The Love between the Lyrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you writing fics? Can I request a cute, caring Paul?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having writer's block at the moment, so thank god for these ficlets

John scrubs his hand across his eyes, offering them the slightest bit of relief. In the dim lamplight the words begin to blur together—more meaningless smudges than decipherable lyrics. 

Well past knackered, he doesn’t even start when a strong pair of hands grip his shoulders. Rather, he relaxes under the massaging fingers, has to resist dropping off to sleep right there. 

“Come to bed, Johnny,” Paul whispers, dropping a kiss to his neck. “It’s half three.”

“I’m just workin’ at the middle eight here, and then I’ll be done.” Craning his neck to look at Paul sidelong, he’s only half joking when he says, “Gi’ us a hand, why don’t you?”

“Sorry, darling,” Paul says with a squeeze to his shoulders, “but I’ve mentally checked out for the night. Let’s have a crack at it in the morning, yeah? Together?” 

John knows what he’s getting at—trying to coax him away from the pencil and the writer’s block and the frustration. It’s always been difficult to deny Paul when he’s like this, gentle and caring in the early hours of morning. Somehow summoning the energy to put John’s needs before his own. 

“Nah, I’ll just be a few more minutes,” he says, despite the sandpaper dryness of his eyes.

Paul sighs and flops dramatically onto the bed. John ignores him, but can’t quite ward off the smile tugging at his lips. 

Not even a minute later there's prodding at his knee from the opposite end of the bed. Paul, with his hair carelessly mussed and his skin soft from a sleep that hasn’t happened yet, gazes up at him. “You’ve gotta stop wearin’ yourself down like this,” he tells John, and it’s endearing, really, how concerned he sounds. “It’s why you don’t wake up til noon everyday.”

John scrunches up his nose at him; it earns a small smile. “Is not.”

“Is too,” Paul laughs.

“Is n—hey!”

Before he can finish, Paul grips his pencil with his toes and jerks it from his hand giggling. He grabs it and shoves it in his mouth, fitting a beautiful smile around the teeth imprints on the wood. 

“Give it back,” John commands and hates how he grins whilst doing so.

“Come and get it.”

Narrowing his eyes, he does just that, leaping out for Paul before he can get his guard up. There’s a flurry of laughter and hands, a few lyric-scribbled papers falling to the floor. Going for the end with the eraser on it, John jerks the pencil out of Paul’s mouth with his teeth and drops it onto the duvet. 

Paul beams up at him, cheeky and gorgeous. A sight that soothes his sore eyes and reminds him who all of these messy lyrics are truly for.

Catching his breath, he cards a hand through Paul’s hair and whispers, “What’re you doing?”

“Successfully distracting you, it seems.”

Shaking his head, John leans down for a kiss, lets Paul quieten his mind with his lips.

“You know I just want the best for you, Johnny.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help cure my writer's block, send more prompts to my [tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)


	4. Your Love Will Be Safe with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally witnessed kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ficlet is the first of many that came from a tumblr prompt list about different types of kisses. i received a lot of requests and i'm keeping everything in order of when i wrote them, so the next ficlets will just be about kissing for a while.

Paul is alone in the dressing room when John joins him. His teeth gnaw at his bottom lip and a lit fag burns between his fingers, mouth clearly too occupied to make room for it. John notices the slightest release of tension in his body when Paul sets his eyes on him.

“You’re up next, baby. It’s your big break from the band,” he teases, loosening his tie. When Paul only manages a half-formed smile, John frowns. “You alright?”

“‘M fine,” he says, but John knows there’s always more to it than that.

“No, what’s wrong?” He walks over to the armchair Paul’s sat in and kneels down at his feet.

Paul sighs, rubs at his jaw. “Just a little nervous, s’all.”

“About what? You’ll kill it, love,” John assures him, thumb sliding back and forth against Paul’s thigh. 

He knows the pressure intensifies for a solo act, but Paul has always radiated confidence and certainty. John is the one who wants to smear his voice with something thick enough to hide the cracks, the one who hates half the lyrics he writes. But Paul—Paul is a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m not used to performing without you lads,” he says. “It’s different when there’s a crowd of people watching _just_ _you.”_

“Your song’s bloody beautiful, Paul. Don’t think about the crowd,” John tells him quietly. “Think about me, ‘cos I’ll be watching, too.”

Paul’s eyes brighten like the sun is coming up behind them. The softest smile graces his face and he brushes his fingers against John’s cheek before leaning down for a kiss. 

“Yeah, and so will I,” a voice calls, invading the room. 

John freezes, his lips stiff against Paul’s for an incriminating moment until he finally finds the sense of mind to jerk away. Even so, there’s no getting around it. No concocting excuses in that off-the-cuff Lennon fashion. John is, quite literally, knelt before the guillotine. 

After so many years of secret alleyway kisses and under-the-table touches, they’ve finally been caught. And John feels like such an arse for making a tense situation even worse when he’d only wanted to make it better. 

“Ringo,” Paul says, slow and measured, “you can’t say a word, mate.”

Ringo shrugs, pushes off from the door jamb like he’s merely walked into some typical backstage banter. “Dunno what yer talkin’ about.”

John pushes to his feet, his blood boiling in a cocktail of fear and anger. “Don’t play dumb with us, Ritchie.”

“John,” Paul soothes, his eyes stern but voice calm; as always, John pulls back on the reins. “He doesn’t know what we’re talkin’ about.”

Hesitantly John glances back to Ringo, moving around the room like he can’t even feel the tainted air John himself is suffocating from. He’s handed a smile, one that helps him breathe the slightest bit easier.

“Just came in for me jacket,” Ringo assures him. 

He picks up the missing piece of his suit from where it was slung over the back of a chair. A jacket just like John’s own. A reminder that everything they do, they do together. Four pieces of one whole. And really, it’s a bond John trusts with his life.

With a calming sigh, he sits on the arm of Paul’s chair. A hand rubs his lower back, out of view, though John isn’t quite sure it matters anymore. “Ta, mate,” he murmurs. 

Ringo shoots him a wink before leaning his head out the door and shouting, “George, get in here, we’re all givin’ Paul a good luck kiss!”

And John knows their secret is in trustworthy hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't plan to post today but since im doing more prompts on tumblr, i can go ahead and post more of the earliest stuff.
> 
> thanks for reading and commenting <3


	5. Of Stolen Specs and Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giggly Kiss and Awkward Teenage Crush Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "we are stardust" is a mess rn, but I'm reminding myself how much I love that fic and want it to be written so I can keep on trucking. (today was better). hope to have an update soon, but in the meantime I'll keep doing these ficlets about once a week!
> 
> happy reading!

“C’mon, Paul, gi’ us me specs.”

Paul nibbles on one of the tips of them—a true performer—before shoving them back over his eyes. “I still don’t know what you mean by _‘my’_ specs. These were just lying around, you see. Up for anyone’s grab.”

“No,” John argues pointedly. “I took them off to make _you_ tea, and when I came back they were on your face, you shit.”

Not that John can be properly mad about it. The bickering and the cheekiness are just two of countless reasons he’s so gone on Paul. He’ll face the world with blind eyes if it means Paul will stick around, stealing his specs and looking better than he ever could in them.

“Alright, fine,” Paul concedes with a smirk that melts John on the spot. “What’ll you give me for ‘em?”

_“Give_ you for ‘em?”

Paul shrugs, cleaning the lenses with his t-shirt. “Yeah, y’know, like a trade.”

John rolls his eyes, truly cannot believe _this_ is what’s distracting them from playing. On a whim, hoping he’s caught Paul off guard, he makes a grab for the glasses. But Paul, shrewd lad he is, lurches back, laughing. 

“Uh-uh,” he scolds, propping them back on his nose, “that’s no way to start off a negotiation, John, love. So hostile.”

He’s so infuriating John could kiss him.

So, unthinkingly, he does.

John lunges forward on the sofa, ignores the anxious knot screaming at him from his gut, and presses his lips to Paul’s. Chaste, a touch misplaced. John’s cheek even bumps the corner of his own glasses, which is something he never could have predicted happening. 

When he pulls away, an odd sense of calm settles over John. He only hopes it’s there to stay and not the eye of some swirling, fatal hurricane.

“Oh,” Paul breathes with a hint of a smile on his lips. He clears his throat. “Yeah, um, that’s—that’s good. Fair trade n’ all. Here, uh…here you go.”

And, God, he’s so flustered John wants to see what’ll happen if he snogs him longer.

Paul hands over the coveted glasses, eyes trained on John’s lips like he wants to be prepared if John comes pitching himself forward again. Shaking his head, John grins and tosses them to the floor. After all that hassle, he really only wanted the boy beneath the glasses.

When he kisses him again, easing in slower this time, Paul giggles against his mouth. John curls a hand around his shoulder to keep him there, make sure he doesn’t vanish. They can hardly maintain a rhythm between the shy smiles; but it feels good to steal something back—laughter and kisses and a fucking perfect moment. John starts to think he got the better end of the deal. 

“Is my debt repaid?” he whispers, brushing Paul’s lips.

“Not yet,” Paul answers and tips his head to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and liking and commenting ♡
> 
> [for the longest time i wanted to do smth w Paul stealing John's glasses (couple years ago it was actually gonna be the starting point of a kinda morbid fic for some reason??), so ofc I jumped at this opportunity. too damn cute]


	6. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "hands on the other person's back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that makes them part the kiss with a gasp"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy reading!

It feels like years since Paul has last seen him—a lifetime. So when John walks through the door, back from shooting his film in Spain, Paul kisses him like he’s actually returned from war. 

It’s desperate and hungry, Paul crowding John against the door that he’d barely got shut. John makes a surprised noise against his mouth before caving into it. His bag drops to the floor and his hands drop onto Paul’s hips. It’s dizzying to have John this close so suddenly, all at once and all over him. A bit of an overload to his senses, but Paul stays flush against him despite it.

He takes a moment to catch his breath and rests his forehead against John’s. There’s less fringe there after the haircut, and Paul likes the change. He cards a hand into the layered locks and whispers, “I fucking missed you, you idiot.”

“Aye? You mean you don’t greet all your mates with a snog?” John teases. And, shit, yeah, Paul _really_ fucking missed him. Before he has the chance to tell him again, John adds, “I missed you, too, love,” and plants a tender kiss against his lips.

Now that Paul has gotten the months of longing out of his system, he can kiss John with a greater sense of ease. He takes the time to taste every word spoken without him, every joke told without his laugh to accompany it—all still trapped in the lines of John’s mouth.

The hands at his sides move to his back, where John’s fingers curl around the fabric of his jumper, tugging up, up, _up,_ until they can sneak beneath it. They’re warm where they slide across the bare skin of his back, mapping him out slowly. 

Paul’s lips part with a gasp. John takes the opportunity to run his tongue along his upper lip. A devilish little flick that has Paul’s head swimming. “Jesus, babe,” he whispers, hand wrinkling the collar of John’s shirt with its firm grip.

“And I missed that, too,” John murmurs with a smirk, his fingers still following the path he’s scouted on his lower back. Paul’s breath stutters in his chest. “Maybe I should go away more often, eh?”

Paul arches into him, moaning, when the fingertips evolve into the slightest bite of nails. “Don’t even fucking think about it,” he warns and pulls John away to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	7. Alleyways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiding/hoping not to be caught kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason I've lost some momentum w We Are Stardust which is a bummer, but imma keep pushing

For the most part, John doesn’t have much to complain about while they’re in Hamburg. The pubs are as filthy as he’d hoped, neon signs light up the town so brightly that he’s convinced there's a fire in his eyes, and the trip finally proves they’re stepping up in the music world. They worked their arses off to be here, and he couldn’t be more proud. The only downside is the bullet his privacy has had to take for it all. 

John feels like he never gets a moment alone with Paul. When they’re not on stage, they’re piled away in the shared, shoddy space at the Bambi Kino. There, Paul is only a mattress away from him, but it may as well be miles. The lack of affection starts to fuck with John. His fuse is cut shorter everyday, and even his playing suffers on nights when the stage lights gleam on Paul’s sweat-slick neck and he isn’t even allowed so much as a taste.

Eventually, enough is enough. 

One night, fresh off the stage and hardly giving Paul time to unplug from the amp, John hauls him away to a side alley near the Indra. He pins him against the bricks, making sure the shadows have engulfed them completely, and kisses him for all the lost time.

Paul moans against him, curves his body into the shape of John’s. For a moment, he submits to the needy exploration of John’s mouth before leaning his head against the wall for a breath. “John, wait, wait,” he interjects through a laugh. “Someone could walk by, love.”

“Don’t care,” John murmurs against the shelf of his jaw. “I want you.”

His mouth latches around the fluttering pulse at Paul’s neck, and it bottles any further complaints for the time being. Until they hear the heavy thud of running feet against the pavement.

Both boys freeze. But when John feels Paul shift like he’s about to push him away, he holds a hand to his chest. “Just…hang on,” he whispers by his ear, unshakably certain of himself. 

Paul swallows audibly, doesn’t move.

“Dunno, just saw ‘em head out the door,” John hears George call out. His voice is close. Not close enough to frighten John into pulling away just yet, but close.

Another voice; this time Stuart’s: “Don’t bother with it. They’re big boys, Harrison, they know their way back.”

A sigh ghosts through the air, quiet as a nighttime breeze, then all is quiet again.

Paul relaxes against him, rests his head against his shoulder, and John buries a relieved smile into his hair. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic,” he breathes without a trace of heat behind the words.

John laughs and relishes in the last few minutes they have together.


	8. Sink of Blood and Crushed Veneer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angry kiss and "I almost lost you" kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to think of more ideas for angsty one shots. I have one I'm working on atm, but I'll have to think of more bc I love them for some reason.
> 
> happy reading!

“Christ, Paul, you’re such an idiot!” 

Paul spits into the sink, staining the porcelain with a bright red. He yells back at him, “You think I _meant_ to go out and wreck the fuckin’ thing?”

Drops of dried blood still bespeckle his face. His tooth is chipped the slightest bit, practically unnoticeable; but John notices it, of course, because he knows every inch of Paul’s body. To see even one scratch on that perfect face is incensing. 

The second John had burst through the door of Bett’s, he was a vortex of emotions. At the center of it was his overt concern—the thing that had him cradling Paul’s face to inspect the damage done. As soon as he ensured he was still living and breathing beneath his hands, though, it morphed grotesquely into an angry screaming match with no true victor.

“I honestly don’t know _what_ you were thinking,” John says, his eyes unable to leave the glaring cut on Paul’s upper lip. It looks like someone took a cheese grater to his face, ripping off pieces of skin. “Why’d you have to even go out for a ride in the first place?”

“Tara wanted me to show ‘im around!”

John scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he did. How ‘bout tellin’ Tara to go fuck ‘imself next time, yeah?”

“Is that what this is?” Paul asks, eyebrows raised and voice thrown even higher. “You’re jealous?”

John doesn’t respond, merely fixes him with an equally piercing scowl. Tension curdles in the air, and he wants to storm out of the room, out of this situation, but worries what more could happen to his boyfriend when he’s gone.

“Unbelievable,” Paul mutters with a shake of his head after a few seconds. “Look, me head’s bloody killin’ me, alright, so I don’t need a lecture from you tonight, John. I mean, fuck, you’re actin’ like I _died_ , and that’s why I didn’t even wanna—”

With a bruising kiss, John prevents him from breathing to life all of his worst fears. Paul winces at the harsh collision of their mouths, sore all over. His lips are swollen from where they’ve already kissed the pavement and there’s a jagged cut right by John’s thumb—and John is so fucking _mad_ at him, but still so relieved to have him here.

His hands holding Paul’s face, he stresses, “I could’ve lost you, you fucking prick.”

The anger leaks from the tight crease of his brow, leaving in its wake a palpable exhaustion. “Johnny, I even told you on the phone I was fine.” 

“Yeah, and Uncle George was _fine,_ and mum was _fine,_ and Stu was _fine._ ” His eyes sting and chest tightens, but John tries to level himself. “Everybody’s been fine until they’re suddenly not anymore. I just—I can’t lose you, too, alright?”

Pulling John into a hug, Paul visibly softens at that. “You didn’t, you _won’t_ ,” he murmurs into his hair. “I promise.”

John holds him closer and forces himself not to think about the blood in the sink.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of you your comments have been so lovely and much appreciated ♡


	9. Sleep, Pretty Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted Parents Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian is their son and I'm willing to fight anyone who disagrees. hope you enjoy some nice dad!mclennon

As soon as Paul’s back hits the mattress, it starts up again. The crying—the _screaming_ , more appropriately, and he feels like giving a shout of his own. 

“I’ve got it this time, love,” John assures him with a sigh and a kiss to his chest.

Paul smiles appreciatively at him, then watches with tired eyes as he leaves the room. They’re both drained to the bone, sapped of energy like a tapper has been jabbed in them, though they still try to divvy up the responsibility an equal amount. He didn’t expect caring for a newborn to be a walk in the park, but he didn’t expect it to be a marathon either.

Minutes pass and Julian is still screaming from the other room, drowning out John’s efforts to quiet him down. Eventually, his husband calls out for him, frustrated. “Paul? Paul, I don’t know what else to do, he won’t stop.”

Paul digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep breath….

In the nursery John has Jules—red-faced and angry— rocking in the cradle of his arm, and both bottle and dummy balanced in the opposite hand. There’s a placating look on his face, plastered on just for Julian, as he vainly shushes him.

“Aww, come now, Jules, darling,” Paul soothes, gently taking him from John’s hold. “What’s the fuss about, eh?”

John scratches at his head, setting his hair on end. “Doesn’t want food, nappy’s still clean—I dunno what I’m missing here.”

Paul bounces up and down, somehow manages not to go deaf from the ear-splitting cries. “A little bit of patience, babe, that’s all. Gi’ us that blanket there,” he says with a nod to the baby blue one draped across the rocking chair.

As soon as the two of them get their son swaddled up in a neat, cozy bundle, the screams settle down. For good measure, Paul hums a few bars about golden slumbers and pretty darlings until the three-week-old’s tears have dried up. They hover by his cot a few extra minutes, watching his tiny features wrinkle up and smooth out in his sleep. 

John wraps his arms around Paul’s waist from behind and sets his chin on his shoulder. “Not even one yet, and he already likes you better,” he murmurs lazily.

“He does not,” Paul argues, pinching the hand resting against his stomach for such a comment. “You make ‘im laugh more than me, all those funny faces you do.” 

“Yeah,” John agrees with an airy chuckle that tickles the side of his neck. “We’re both pretty great, huh?”

Paul turns his head and smiles at him. “Mmhm.”

This whole parenting business is all trial-and-error, but they’re doing their best; it shows in the stress lines on their faces.

Fingers tucked under his chin, John leads him into a kiss packed with days’ worth of exhaustion. Paul sighs through his nose and threads his fingers with John’s, still splayed at his stomach. A sense of warmth and contentment slinks through his chest.

When they part, he leans back into John’s embrace and tries not to fall asleep on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since it got so much love, I've decided I'm gonna turn the university ficlet into a longer story. just gonna have to do a lot more research on the British university scene since it's so different from America's, but I'm excited to develop the story line more. thanks for all your feedback on that ficlet, comments are always what help motivate my decisions <33


	10. My Kingdom for a Kiss upon His Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss on the neck and Kiss on the back "(you know what's barely mentioned in any fic? john's shoulder freckles. criminal. so maybe something with 14 or 15? love ya : ) )"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from (absolute legend) Jeff Buckley's "lover, you should've come over" - highly recommend

As Paul wades back ashore, the hot sand nestles between the slits of his toes and against the soles of his feet like they’re washed-up seashells. He always heard the water was blue, but never anticipated it being practically clear.  _ Bluer than Ringo’s eyes, _ they had joked during filming.

Further up the beach, John lies stretched out beneath the sun with his back soaking up the rays. They haven’t been this serene in a while, always busy recording or shooting the next big thing. It’s refreshing to have an escape here, this place where it seems like paradise was picked up out of a postcard and dropped right at their feet.

When he’s close enough, Paul shakes his hair like a wet dog and flings droplets of water across John’s skin to get his attention. His heart melts—either from the sun or the affection he feels—when a gentle smile sails his way. Wearing one of his own, he drops down beside John and splays himself haphazardly across his back, head rested against his shoulder blade. 

The sun pulls so many hidden secrets from John—the subtle strands of red in his hair, the scattering of freckles along the crests of his shoulders. Arguably Paul’s favorite, that one. He can’t quite believe John constantly carries a galaxy on his shoulders like it’s a weightless nothing. Constellations that he could name easier than the ones in the nighttime sky.

He traces over them with his finger like a cartographer, then follows the path with his lips. John’s skin is tan and warm and he could watermark it with kisses all day. The quietude around them certainly makes him feel like he has the time for it.

“I could’ve been out there drownin’, y’know,” he murmurs, inching his way to the tempting stretch of John’s neck, “and you wouldn’ta even known.”

John sighs, minutely shifting for the flurry of Paul’s kisses. “Oh, I’d know, alright. Sooner or later I’d start to wonder why it’s so peaceful around here,” he teases, and the junction of his neck and shoulder gets playfully bitten in retaliation, but is quickly soothed over with a soft peck.

“This is nice, innit?” Paul asks quietly, back to nosing along the sun-kissed spots at the nape of John’s neck.

The ocean seems to answer him, crashing on some faraway rocks. 

“Mmhm,” comes his actual response. Then, gentle as a breeze, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Paul says, and thinks among the stars on John’s back is as safe a place to hide his smile as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #johnfreckleappreciation2kforever
> 
> [find me on tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)


	11. It's Art, I Swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss Against a Locker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> think I'm gonna start posting these twice a week bc there are...so fucking many.
> 
> anyway I had way too much fun w this one; hope you enjoy!

“Paul, you shoulda seen it, mate, the whole class was _howlin’_ ,” Ringo tells him, eyes bright as they shift between him and the books in his locker.

Paul shakes his head, but can’t fight the smile tugging at his mouth. He looks up and down the busy hallway, waiting to see an auburn quiff among the crowd or hear a familiar voice. But still no sign of John. “Well, where’s he at now?” 

“Got held up by the teacher, prob’ly gettin’ a referral or summat.”

More to add to his collection, then. It seems like every other day John is befouling a desk or making inappropriate jokes or disrupting the class in some creative and novel way. The bad marks stack up like the letters in a post box. Ironically enough, John has potential; he’s just selective about how and where he uses it.

“Christ,” Paul sighs, “I dunno what I’m gonna do with ‘im.”

Suddenly a strong pair of hands squeeze his sides. A surprised yelp barely escapes his mouth before he’s being wedged between John and the lockers. “With who?” his boyfriend asks, smirking and close enough for Paul to see the mischief in his eyes.

“ _You_ , you menace,” he answers, though his breath is a bit shaken up now.

“Oh, I can think of plenty of things you can do with me, baby,” John says, low and honey thick, as he slips his hand under Paul’s shirt. His other hand steadies his jaw to draw him into a deep kiss. 

Paul’s eyes flutter shut, fingers curl around the collar of John’s leather jacket. He forgets they’re at school, in a packed hallway, and loses himself in the deft slide of John’s mouth. He tastes the lingering remnants of a cigarette and it’s as addictive as if he were smoking one himself. 

Beside them, Ringo pointedly clears his throat, and John pulls away with a titillating tug of his bottom lip. He puts some space between them, but keeps a hand firmly on Paul’s lower back.

With a proud smile he asks, “Did you tell ‘im, Ritchie?”

“That you drew a dick on the chalkboard?” Paul says before their mate gets the chance. “Yeah, I’m all caught up, love.”

“Aww, Macca,” John laughs, kissing his cheek, “it was just a little prezzie for when he came back in.”

“Why can’t you just draw ‘em in yer notebook like a normal person?”

He fans his fingers across his chest in mock offense, protesting, “‘Cos then no one else gets to admire my work!” Then, biting his lip, he quietly adds, “Guess what else, though.”

Paul rolls his eyes, humors him against his better judgement. “What?”

“It was yours I used as a reference.”

“John!”


	12. No Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk, Sloppy Kiss

John doesn’t remember how many drinks he had, but when does he ever? He feels loose and giddy and like somewhat of a hindrance to Paul, who’s pissed himself but sober enough to lead them home. They tackle the empty streets together, laughing and clinging to each other drunkenly.

Their feet slow up near a lamppost on the pavement, because John’s told a joke that has Paul shouting into the night air and clutching his sides. He’s so beautiful—backlit by the yellowish light, face twisted up into a smile that John put there. And when he calms down, head tilted back against the winding metal post, his eyes are impossibly large and stunning as they gaze at John in a way that makes him feel like he means something to somebody.

“John, yer so—yer so great, mate,” Paul says with a hand folded around John’s shoulder. “I mean, just… _really_ fuckin’ fab, y’know?”

John chuckles softly, doesn’t really know how to respond to that in a way that won’t send Paul running for the hills. Reluctantly, he settles on, “You too, soft lad,” and nudges his friend’s chest with the back of his hand.

“No, no,” Paul shakes his head, brow creasing the slightest bit, “like yer _really_ great, I don’ even know how to tell you.”

The grip on his shoulder tightens, squeezing rhythmically. John swallows, not quite sure if he’s sobering up or even drunker than before. But as he obeys Paul’s insistent hand, guiding him forward, he decides he _has_ to be more intoxicated than he thought. Paul’s eyes darken the closer John gets, like they’ve absorbed the night around them, and then they’re kissing. 

John can’t quite believe it. His head is drowning in the alcohol and thoughts of Paul, and if he wasn’t already drunk on the former, he’d positively be _wasted_ from the latter. The kiss is messy and perfect, all sharp teeth and slick tongues. Curious, a touch eager. Paul gets both hands under his t-shirt, scrambling along his back like they can’t find a place to settle. 

Panting, John breaks the kiss. Has to take a breather because wishes aren’t supposed to be this easily granted. “Wha—what’re we doing?” he mumbles, feeling like there has to be something he’s missed.

“Snogging,” Paul answers simply. His cheeks are tinged with red and his hair is mussed from John’s fingers rummaging through it, and God, John has never been more annoyed at himself for having a voice of reason.

“Yeah, but….”

Paul shakes his head, pecks him on the mouth again. “No buts. No regrets.”

John eyes him hesitantly. There’s a lot at stake and he’s afraid to gamble with it. But then Paul slides his tongue along his lips—the lips John just kissed, the lips John knows he’ll never get over now that he’s had a taste of them—and he can’t think of a better time to roll the dice.

He nods. No regrets.


	13. You're Worth a Million in Prizes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Public Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write them at a fair or carnival (don't ask why) so I jumped at the opportunity to do it here.

Bulbous lights of red and yellow flash around them. Buzzers and bells sound off through the air like klaxons. Children dart between their legs looking for the next thrilling ride. They roam the fairgrounds, John with his arm slung around Paul’s shoulders, soaking up the sights and smells.

“Holy shit, babe, they’ve got a sheepdog!” Paul says, pointing to a giant, scruffy prize hanging high in the booth of a milk bottle game. Tiny pink tongue poking from between the lips, hair shaggy and mop-like covering its eyes. “It looks just like Martha.”

“Oh yeah, ‘s cute,” John agrees. He nudges Paul’s side and smiles softly at him. “You want it?”

Paul waves him off. “Nah, s’alright. Just caught me eye, is all.”

From the booth the carnie, hair greased back and face plowed by wrinkles, encourages, “I think he wants it.” 

“I think he does, too.”

Paul rolls his eyes fondly as John kisses his cheek, then steps closer to the booth with a grin. 

“What’a we got here, sir?”

“Knock down all three bottles to get your lad that top prize there. For two, you can have one of these from the middle row, and if your aim is dead rubbish and you only hit one, you can take your pick from a bottom row prize.”

John tosses down some cash in exchange for a ball. Eyes meeting Paul’s, he says, “Three bottles it is, then,” like he’s determined to make it happen. 

For what it’s worth, Paul doesn’t doubt him at all.

Even as he watches John throw and miss a number of times, he still has faith in him. The smile on Paul’s face is permanent, not once flickering, as his boyfriend hands over pound after pound for a third, fourth, and fifth go at the game. Profile doused in spotty lights, lip bitten in concentration, bicep taut when he rears back. Expression layered with frustration and childlike glee as he misses yet again.

He’s so captivating that Paul forgets he even wanted a prize—realizes he already has the most valuable one right in front of him.

“Dammit! I was close—I was so close,” John yells, though his grin is a mile wide. “Did you see that?”

“I saw,” Paul laughs. “C’mon, babe, yer gonna go broke if you keep at it.”

John shakes his head adamantly as the carnie re-stacks the bottles. “I’m gettin’ you that Martha, alright?”

“John, love, you’ve got people waitin’ on you now.”

A gaggle of children and parents has gathered in line, awaiting their turns. Paul passes them an apologetic smile because he isn’t quite sure what words excuse a grown man hogging one of the games at the fairgrounds. They all seem patient enough, though.

“Alright, alright, last one,” John concedes. He takes a deep breath like he’s readying himself, but then suddenly holds the ball out and says, “Give it a kiss for good luck.”

Paul chuckles, but offers up his lips for an exaggerated peck nonetheless. 

Satisfied, John turns his focus back to the bottles, steadies his aim. One cannonball to knock loose an entire fortress. He cocks his arm back and sends it flying with more force than any previous throw had seen.

Finally the ball dismantles the pyramid of milk bottles with a loud clatter, and the small crowd behind them erupts into applause and cheers. A flare of shock and amusement straps to John’s face. “Gimme those lucky lips!” he shouts, pulling Paul into his arms and kissing him and earning even more support from their audience. 

With so much elation in his heart—on his face, maintaining the kiss is difficult, but he manages. His arms hang loosely around John’s neck, mouth catching on his upper lip again and again until he decides to pepper John’s face in chaste, sporadic kisses to best express his gratitude. 

Laughing and scrunching his face, John breaks away from him just in time to claim their reward. The massive Martha replica—with a thick, black and white coat that thankfully won’t shed—makes its way over the booth so John can present it to Paul properly. Daft little bow, palms upright like they’re proffering a shimmering sword. 

Paul intends to cherish it just the same.

“Now you gotta go win _me_ something,” John says as he whisks him away with an arm around his waist. Paul laughs and slings his new prize across his back, carrying it like a backpack.

He feels like a kid again. Ageless. John always makes him feel that way.


	14. Dream of You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returned from the dead kiss and "we can never be together" kiss

They meet again, only it’s in a dream.

Paul drifts down a long hallway, following the sound of music like he always has. A piano plays somewhere ahead of him, all around him. Its song incomplete, a demo that needs more fine-tuning. But in the depths of his soul Paul knows each missing note.

His feet finally bring him to a halt at the doorway of a large room. Everything is white, so white tears nearly prickle his eyes. It’s not heaven, but it sure looks like it. 

Off in the corner sits the piano, crooning chords that don’t even exist in common consciousness, and Paul’s heart lurches when he realizes who’s playing it.

John. John, who he lost a year ago. John, who he loved in a way that he never imagined he could love someone. John, who valiantly refuses to leave even after his time has been declared over.

“I can’t get the melody right, Paul,” he says, his voice somehow sounding distant and close all at once. “You were always better at the melodies.”

“John? John, is this a dream?” But then he’s suddenly sitting on the piano bench alongside his friend, and Paul thinks he’s just answered his own question. He really doesn’t want this to be all in his head.

“ _You’re_ a dream,” John responds, a smile in his voice that Paul can’t quite see as clearly as he’d like. “Beautiful. A beautiful boy.” 

Soft and sweet, he begins to hum—hums along to the song that pains Paul when he hears it nowadays. He joins him anyway. Partners until the very end. 

Their fingers dance familiarly along the keys like they’re picking up where they left off on some forgotten song. But they never touch, don’t even graze. All Paul wants is to reach out and touch him again.

“Come back with me, John,” he pleads, pretends it isn’t futile. “Please come back, I miss you.”

John looks at him with an odd mix of sorrow and serenity in his eyes. Here, in this corner of Paul’s subconscious, he’s ageless. Young as ever, face smooth and not weathered by the fame and the bitter words. The way he _should_ be remembered.

“We can’t be together anymore, Paul,” John tells him. The music stops; the words cut deep. “Not like we used to.”

Paul clenches his jaw, shakes his head in protest. “Don’t say that, I don’t wanna hear that.”

“Just let it be, love, remember? I’ll come back to visit you every now and then.”

“Please don’t go, Johnny.” 

He doesn’t know how to block reality from creeping in, doesn’t know how to fight it. He wants to keep playing the piano, but it’s disappeared, swallowed by the haze—and now John is fading, too, blurring at the edges like a watercolor. 

_He tries to fight it._

“I love you, alright?” John leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth; he swears he can feel it. “Always did, always will.”

Paul jerks awake, shaking, his lyric sheets wet with tears. 

He never even got the chance to say it back.


	15. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealous Kiss and Kisses where one person is sitting in the other's lap

Paul quirks his lips, foot practically tapping a hole into the floor. On the settee, Stuart clasps his hand over John’s knee again, laughing, and Paul takes another drink. It’s a twisted sort of game he’s found himself participating in—a drink for every flirtatious touch or lingering gaze. It’s dangerous, has him verging on impulsive and courageous. 

At this point the party has officially lost his attention. It’s crawling with avant-garde artist types, who Paul only tolerates for John. The music is quiet and sullen, pitching him even farther into his mood. John throws his arm around the back of the settee behind Stuart’s head. Paul takes another drink.

“You’re so obvious, you know that?” George asks, sidling up beside him at the kitchen counter with a beer in hand.

Paul glances at him sidelong, wearing a frown that feels like a permanent accessory on his face by now. “What’re you on about?”

With a knowing smirk, George nudges his shoulder. “You’re sitting over ‘ere sulkin’ in the corner over them two.” 

“‘M not sulkin’,” Paul mutters, but doesn’t even fully convince himself. He shrugs. “John can chat up whoever he wants. I don’t give a shit.”

“Oh, c’mon, Paul, he’s not chattin’ Stu up. John loves you, he wouldn’t do that.”

The infuriating part is Paul knows that. He  _ knows _ John is loyal. But after a few drinks and a lot of watching another bloke’s hands grabbing at his boyfriend, it’s impossible not to feel the venomous spines of jealousy in his gut.

“Who invited that arsehole anyway?” he grumbles.

“It’s  _ his _ party, mate,” George laughs.

Paul scoffs, doesn’t really care for how logical and reasonable his mate is being tonight. “Boring fuckin’ party anyway.”

George shrugs, murmurs into his cup, “Ah, it’s alright.” 

He intends to respond, isn’t completely finished complaining yet; but then he witnesses something that tips him over the edge.

Stuart leans over and, mouth infuriatingly close to his ear, whispers something that has John smiling and Paul seeing red. Ignoring George’s dissuasions, he downs the last of his drink and strides into the sitting room. 

“Hey, babe, having fu—”

Before John can finish, Paul seats himself across his lap and kisses him. Grabs him by the chin and reminds him where those hands rightfully belong. One hesitates in the air before finding its way to his hip, the other to the nape of his neck.

John hums, more than responsive to it. Paul pulls out all the stops—puts on a little show right there in the sitting room with every obscene stroke of his tongue that he knows drives John mad. When he feels he’s properly made his point, he pulls back with John chasing after his lips.

“Mm, what was that for?” he asks, voice thick just from one steamy kiss.

Paul smiles, tilts his head. “Just wanted to say hi.”

Eyes fastened on his lips, John murmurs, “Well, say it again,” and brings him in for another taste.

Beside them, Stuart gets up from the settee and disappears into the rest of the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave a comment down below where y'all can leave requests as well, just in case that's easier on some of you who want to leave them!


	16. Sugar and Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss on a dare

Paul sees the hesitance coloring his friend’s face as he peers through the gate and into the stranger’s back garden. He offers some motivational words, “C’mon, it’s a quick snatch. You just get in and get out.”

John scoffs. “If it’s that simple, why don’t you do it, then?”

“‘Cos it’s not my dare,” Paul reminds him. Before John can interrupt, he adds, “Now hurry ‘fore someone comes out. You got it, Johnny!”

“Yer gonna pay for this,” John mumbles as he hops the gate anyway, but Paul grins like the cat that got the cream. Retribution is the last thing on his mind.

The apple tree is towering and seemingly ever-expanding. A forbidden goldmine. John slinks his way through the garden, looks like a fairytale hero standing there under the hanging fruit. Paul can hardly take his eyes off him.

“Oi,” a booming voice shouts, “you bloody kids get outta me trees!”

Paul’s heart skips a beat when he sees a man standing large and tall at the open back door of the house. There’s a slender BB gun in his hand aimed straight at John. Suddenly Paul’s voice is loud and urgent and rushing out of his throat.

“John, run!”

Head ducked low, John curses and books it back towards him. As soon as his feet hit Paul’s side of the gate, the both of them are darting back down the street. They weave between people and shop fronts, until their feet lead them to the vast greenery of the golf course. Out of sight under a shady tree, they catch their breaths. 

“I only—I only got the one,” John pants, doubled over with a single shiny apple sitting in the cradle of his hand. 

Paul plops down in the grass, rests his head against the chipped bark. “Guess we’ll just have to share it, then.”

Heavy breathing and crisp bites occupy the silence for a few moments. The sun starts to drip below the horizon and they have a front-row seat for it. Paul sighs, looks over at John. A perfect red circle sits high on his cheekbone.

“Old bastard got you right in the cheek there,” Paul murmurs and reaches out to rub his thumb over it. 

John stops chewing for a second, then a ginger smile rests on his lips. “I didn’t even feel it, me heart was beating so bloody fast.”

They lock eyes and Paul still can’t shake that image of John as the courageous hero. The admirable protagonist. Sunlight bouncing off his hair, adrenaline tucked away in the twinkle of his eye. He looks invincible.

Paul drops his hand back into his lap, floats back into reality.

“‘S my turn to give you a dare, y’know.”

A single eyebrow lifts, challenging. “Do your worst, Lennon.”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

Paul chuckles, but when he realizes he’s laughing by himself, his stomach drops. “You’re serious?”

John shrugs. “We’re already eatin’ from the same apple. It’s no different.”

Paul looks down at the apple in his hand. Multiple sets of teeth marks, each shaped different than the last. It should be that simple, shouldn’t it? Yet he’s not so sure it is. “Yeah, but….”

“You scared?” John asks, and there’s that teasing chime in his voice. The one that Paul always follows like a pied piper’s call. He snatches the apple from Paul’s hand, deliberately takes a bite.

“I ain’t scared,” Paul mumbles. 

He means it.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Without allowing himself a further thought, Paul hauls John forward with both hands twisted in the collar of his shirt. Their lips are sticky and sweet; the kiss is simple and perfect. There’s a thud—the apple falling to the ground, then John’s hand is cupping Paul’s cheek. It startles Paul into pulling away, and the kiss breaks.

After all that time spent finding their breaths, they’ve lost them again. It didn’t last long enough—not nearly long enough. John’s eyes are still closed like he knows it, too.

So, licking his lips and tasting John and sugar and mischief, Paul whispers, “I dare you to kiss me back.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll never forget that dusty springfield interview where John said he got shot at for stealing apples or something and Paul just had this look about him when dusty touched his face checking for "scars".


	17. All the Right Chords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught Off-guard Kiss

“John, look, it’s these three fingers here—no, _these,”_ Paul stresses, rearranging his fingers on the fretboard for the umpteenth time. “Are you even paying attention?”

“I’m trying, Macca, but you’re just so pretty I can’t concentrate.” He sighs and bats his eyes, plays it up as a joke when it’s only half as such.

Paul’s eyelashes are mere shadows against his cheeks—so long and dark. Occasionally his tongue pokes out between those full lips like it’s trying to get a taste of the music flowing from his fingertips. He’s a dream. A dream sitting cross-legged on John’s very bed because the night couldn’t contain him. 

Most of the time John cocks up a chord simply to have Paul reach across and gingerly correct him. His hands are always confident and patient. So unlike John’s own that it feels good to touch something different. 

Snorting, Paul teases, “Well, try to work past my distracting beauty so you can get this chord down, yeah?”

And Christ, he’s so helpful and kind that it kills John when he doesn’t know how to tell him, “I appreciate you.” Three simple words that aren’t even the most intimate of triplets, yet they’re still too big to squeeze past his lips. He thinks maybe he can write it in a letter and slip it into his palm. Dress it up in the outfit of a song and pray Paul keeps a watchful eye.

“Now, three fingers, alright? One, two, three,” Paul emphasizes with a small wave of them. 

John mirrors him just for the smile he knows it’ll bring. Their fingers find the fretboards of their respective guitars as they pick back up. Voice low and sweet as a song, Paul continues on, “Then it gets easier here, cause—”

But he zones out again because all of a sudden he’s leaning forward and their guitars are thudding together and their lips are connecting. For a terrifying second John kisses dead lips and thinks he flew too close to the sun. Slowly…hesitantly, though, Paul’s mouth softens against his, puts forth an added layer of pressure. Then the only thing burning is John’s lungs from the euphoria that has stolen his breath. 

With a single tilt of his head, Paul breaks the kiss. His forehead is solid and warm against John’s own until it’s gone altogether and everything rushes back to his senses. The guitars, the music, the practice.

“What…what was that?” Paul asks, eyes fastened on his own fingers curled over the body of his guitar. He doesn’t sound angry, John notes, which must be a good sign. However, he also isn’t looking at him, and he isn’t sure which is worse.

“I just…I dunno,” John says; it doesn’t sound like much of an excuse. Then again, he isn’t quite sure an excuse is what he’s looking for. Sometimes people get tired of strumming the same old chords, singing the same old tunes. “I dunno,” he repeats, quieter.

Paul scratches the side of his head and nods. “Well, um, we—we were on the A chord, then.”

“D minor,” John corrects, fights a smile. 

“D minor—right, right.”

Somehow they carry on. It doesn’t interfere with their music, nothing ever does. It’s their home base. Return to it and everything is okay again. Every so often, though, Paul bites his lip—more than he had been previously. Can he still feel the imprint of John’s lips like John can feel his?

Needless to say, he doesn’t have much trouble paying attention after that.


	18. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

Initially it’s the smells that curl a finger for John’s nose to follow. But when he steps in the kitchen, the sight of Paul cooking, shirtless and focused to an adorably attentive degree, entices John’s appetite more than the food sizzling in the pan.

John eases up behind him, wraps his arms around his waist. Smiling, Paul swats at his forearm with one hand, while the other whips around the cooking vegetables.

“John, love, I’m busy,” he says, squirming at the wet kisses John scatters along his neck.

“Busy ignoring me,” he murmurs, tugging at Paul’s earlobe with his teeth. His hands roam across his stomach, brushing through the tuft of hair below his navel. “Busy being a tease.”

Paul’s breath trips, almost imperceptibly, but John is so close he can’t miss it. “How am I being a tease?”

“Who the fuck cooks naked?”

“Piss off, it gets hot in here,” he defends with a laugh. “And anyway, I’ve still got me trousers on.”

John strings his kisses along the line of Paul’s jaw and thumbs over the button of his tight trousers. Voice low, he asks, “Need help gettin’ ‘em off?”

Paul’s hand fumbles with the wooden spoon in his hand. John feels his resolve cracking like crushed glass between his fingers. “C’mon, John, for real, let me finish. I thought you were hungry.”

“I am. Very hungry.  _ So _ hungry.”

There’s heat everywhere—between them, pouring off the stove—and John knows it’s getting to his boyfriend. Can taste the sweat beading at his neck. He always relishes in the sense of accomplishment that comes from persuading Paul away from a more pressing task at hand.

One after another, he presses tender kisses to Paul’s cheek, until it has his boyfriend tipping his head closer. Their noses bump, mouths a hair’s breadth apart. With his fingertips settled at the bolt of his jaw, John kisses him just softly enough to leave him craving more.

“John,” Paul protests weakly, a mere sigh against his lips. Hooded eyes lock onto John’s lips like they’re weighing the consequences. But of his own volition, he leans forward again, lets their mouths lock and unlock. “Johnny…mmm…,” and then he falls into it completely.

The spoon clatters into the pan as a hand comes up to lay against John’s cheek. John smiles into the kiss, gets a sharp bite on his bottom lip for such an overt display of pride. This time when his fingers go for the fly of Paul’s trousers, though, there’s no scolding hand to stop him.

“Fucking hell,” Paul mutters, then he’s clicking the burners off and hopping up onto the adjacent counter, legs spread as he pulls John into the gap of them. Hands on thighs, mouths on chests.

John always prefers having his dessert first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this one bc it's similar to a one shot idea I thought of a while back, except that one involves pot and baking brownies. I think I'll get around to finishing it one day


	19. Kiss Me out of Desire, Not Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> appropriately enough, this is the last ficlet for the kissing prompts. after this, it will be random requests I was sent or requests given based on dialogue prompt lists I'll occasionally reblog on tumblr. glad y'all are digging these ♡
> 
> title taken yet again from Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye

“What’re you working on?” John asks from over his shoulder.

Paul is thrown back to 1957, where John smelled like beer and teenage rebellion the first time he ever leaned over him at a piano. He misses that day. For now it’s only them in the studio, but Paul doesn’t know how long that will last. He’s not sure how long _anything_ lasts anymore.

“Nothing,” he answers stubbornly.

John scoffs and leaves a miserable emptiness at his back as he walks away. “It’s never nothing.”

Paul stills his fingers. He scans his eyes over the alternating ebonies and ivories, only to realize jarringly that he’s in an ebony shade of life. Dark, dark, dark.

“What’s happened to us?” he murmurs, uncertain of whom he’s asking.

There’s a heavy, impatient sigh. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know John has a cigarette burning between the fingers that rub tiredly at his eyes. “Paul, stop.”

But he doesn’t know how. For years he’s tried to stop, just to spare himself the heartache. Twelve years don’t vanish overnight.

“I knew things would change,” he says, “but I wanted us to change with it, y’know? Together, not apart.”

“I don’t have all the answers, alright?” John comes back to the piano, looks deep in his eyes with sorrow written across his face. “I’m just doing what I think is best.”

Paul doesn’t want to cry again. He’s so sick and tired of crying. He just wants to _play,_ goddammit, but even that is too much to ask for these days.

Suddenly John leans closer. He tenderly cradles Paul’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Paul feels like he’s being touched for the first time. He closes his eyes, breathes a sigh, waits for the one thing he hardly gets anymore. 

When their lips meet, ivories explode behind Paul’s eyes—blinding white light. He raises his hands to pull John in, hold him close again, body starved for his touch. So many touches they have shared in this studio, love songs they have written for each other. Where has it all gone?

The kiss breaks; John puts the dreaded distance between their lips. Resting his forehead against Paul’s, he breathes deeply. “I don’t want it this way either.”

Lightly Paul shakes his head, pleads, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

He leans back in, but John backs away entirely now. Paul doesn’t know the words to say that will bring him back.

The studio doors open and she quietly shuffles in, ruining the moment. “Hello, darling,” John says with a grin that Paul struggles to convince himself is fake. 

He leaves the studio for some fresh air.

John watches him go.

The tables turn on one cold and dark December day when Paul watches John go. It’s a month he wants to rip from the calendar completely. A month that takes John and any shred of hope at restoring what they once at with it.


	20. Counting Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We do need more of John's freckles in the world. Can we have a sleepy, lazy morning where Paul is just kissing John's freckles"  
> \- anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #johnfreckleappreciation2kforever

_One, two, three, four…._

The sunlight sneaks past the curtains and onto their skin. Paul can clearly see every tiny freckle illuminated on John’s left arm and shoulder. Those beautiful fingerprints left by the sun. He presses his lips to them tenderly, as if they may smudge under his touch, and continues on his headcount. 

When John stirs and starts to turn around in his hold, Paul keeps him still.

“What’re you doin’?” John asks, sleep thick in his throat.

“Nothin’, just stay,” he urges gently with another kiss on the ball of his shoulder.

“Ohh, are you…?”

“No,” Paul laughs, swats John’s searching hand away from his crotch.

Frowning, he cranes his neck to glance at Paul sidelong, another lone freckle on show right by his jaw. “Then what?”

“ _Nothin’,_ ” Paul repeats again, still laughing a little. And, really, he has lost count at this point. It’s just far too tempting to tease John this early in the morning. He smiles against the nape of his neck, where the skin is warm and smooth and pleading for his lips.

John huffs. 

Biting his lip, Paul runs the hand around his waist higher up his chest in an effort to appease. It seems to work, if John grabbing on and interlocking their fingers is any indication. After a few seconds of bated breaths and barely-there touches, he finally says, “Okay, yer good,” and loosens his hold.

“You’re so weird,” John murmurs when he turns around to face him. But he sounds fond and looks lovely with his tousled hair and makes Paul want to spend every morning counting the marks on his body that are probably only beautiful and important to him. 

He grins and watches his own fingers running up and down John’s freckled arm. “Yeah.”

They kiss for a drawn-out moment, mouths moving lazily; he loves these slow mornings. John’s eyes are still heavy and Paul knows he’s been relishing the soft affections. He sighs contentedly as Paul trails his lips down his neck and back to his sun-kissed shoulders. 

There’s still plenty left to explore—landmarks left to admire. He starts again.

_One, two, three, four…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im rlly *rlly* hoping to have a new one shot posted for john's bday but honestly idk if it'll be done in time. either way I'm hoping for the best!


	21. Bus Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hello, love! If you feel like it, could you please right a short fic where John plays with Paul’s hair or vise verse?"  
> \- anonymous

A cold wind whistles through the empty street. Drunk and tired, Paul keeps tucked in close to John, who swims his fingers through his dark hair. It has lost all of its form and style from another wild night on stage, but John finds he likes it better this way. His fingers can move freely as they please.

“You’ll wake me up when the bus gets here, right?” Paul had asked him in a worried slur. Eyes so wide they could suck the whole universe into them. 

John, arms stretched across the back of the wooden bench, had only wanted him to shut his gob and stop fighting sleep. “I’ll throw you in front of it if I have to.”

But that was two buses ago. John has sat and watched them come and go like old friends. Each time the driver will give him a curious look, open the doors, and John will stare up at him with motionless eyes until he drives away again. Not once has he woken Paul up.

And now he’s fast asleep against John’s chest, snoring softly. John watches his hair curl and twist around his lazy fingers and wonders where the hell they’re going. The band is being worked to the bone and he can see the toll it takes on all of them—especially Paul. They can’t find a drummer who’s worth a damn, can’t even settle on a fucking  _ name, _ and don’t get taken seriously by anyone experienced enough to get them a contract.

He’s probably the only person to have ever sat at a bus stop with no clear destination in mind.

“Train, train, comin’ round the bend,” Paul mumbles drunkenly, half giggling. 

John smiles softly and nuzzles the top of his head. “That right, love?” 

He gently tugs at the locks at the base of Paul’s skull where it’s thickest. In no time he drops back off again like John’s fingers have stirred his imagination into another dream. Furrowed brows, parted lips—a resting angel in his arms. A hopeful warmth webs through John’s chest at the feeling of being lost but not alone. 

In the distance another bus douses him in hazy yellow headlights, and he can’t wait to miss it.


	22. buildings, books, and boners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous: "What about Paul and John arguing over something incredibly stupid and one of them stops and is like "why the fuck are we fighting" and they both start laughing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely based on a conversation i had while drunk

“I think about architecture when I’m trying to hold out.”

They’re in bed, sweaty and sated, when Paul brings it up. He has his head on John’s chest, tracing patterns with a finger, and drops it right there on his skin apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Excuse me?” John says, mind still a bit too fuddled to follow.

“When we’re having sex and I try not to, y’know, _finish,”_ he gestures vaguely with a hand, “I think about architecture to hold out.”

John almost smiles at the way he still tiptoes around certain words after all these years. But his mind catches on to what Paul _is_ saying rather than what he isn’t, and he snorts at such a confession. “What a pretentious thing to think about.”

“It’s not pretentious,” he defends with a frown. “Architecture is like a neutral, y’know. It’s a safe place.”

“I’d say it’s pretty sexual, don’t you think? So many phallic-shaped buildings in the world and round domes. If your mind starts wandering to the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building, you’re done for.”

Paul pushes up onto his elbow, which means he doesn’t intend to drop the subject anytime soon. “What do you think about, then?”

John sighs, waves a hand. “I dunno, normal things like books or the weather.”

“Thinking about books is far more pretentious than thinking about architecture. How am I supposed to know Hemingway isn’t the one getting you off?”

“How am I supposed to know the curves of the Taj Mahal aren’t getting _you_ off?!” John argues, eyebrows raised. His tone shifts into his best impression of Paul in bed, one sure to annoy him even more. “Hmm, a nice quaint Tuscan home. Chimney looks a bit phallic, could be dangerous but we’re still okay. The Roman Colosseum, ooh she’s a round one. Oh fuck, and Big Ben, so _long_ and _hard_. Oh—oh God, the Leaning Tower of Pisa! _Yeees_!”

“I don’t get turned on by architecture!” Paul yells, so adamant about it that John isn’t quite sure he believes it; the seriousness on his face is laughable. “You always do this! I tell you something in confidence and you always poke holes in it.”

Throwing his head back, John moans exaggeratedly. “Oh yes, the holes!”

“Shut up!” Paul finally laughs, shoving a pillow over his face. But John’s muffled laughter still pushes its way through and Paul pushes harder. “You’re so annoying!”

He holds his stomach as tears well in his eyes. “Why—why the fuck are we even arguing over this?”

Apparently the sight of John dissolving into hysterics and the realization of their conversation catches up to Paul, because he bites his lip on the laughter that spills from his own mouth. Affectionately he ruffles John’s hair with smiling eyes. “Why the fuck did I even think it was a good idea to tell you about it?”

He calms down enough to wrap his arms around Paul and kiss him on the lips. “Don’t worry, love, I won’t tell people the Eiffel Tower gives you a hard-on,” he teases.

“I don’t get turned on by architecture!”

He chuckles and kisses his cheek. “Whatever you say, babe.”


	23. the tear that hangs inside my soul forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 94: “I told you that I didn’t wanna talk about it. Why can’t you just let it go?” and/or 96: “She’s dead...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright this starts off a good few ficlets i did a while back that were based on a list of dialogue prompts posted on tumblr. folks sent in a number (or few) and i wrote a ficlet based around the corresponding piece of dialogue. thanks to all who sent some in!
> 
> title taken (yet again) from "lover you should've come over" bc if it wasn't evident already, i'm an absolute slut for jeff buckley

The morning sky is ashen. Every morning since the accident has been a bleak and ashen morning. She left and took the colors of the sky with her.

“It gets better,” Paul says, breaking the silence. “You find ways to cope.”

He keeps his consolations short, John has noticed. But even the shortest words are too much. “I told you that I didn’t wanna talk about it,” John says coldly, eyes still fixed on the dreariness outside. “Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Because it’s not gonna let _you_ go, so I don’t know why—”

“ _Paul_ ,” he snaps, finally turning empty eyes on him. The loudest thing he’s said all day and it’s the name of the one person who actually understands the heartache. But if he doesn’t talk about it, it isn’t real. And it’s a childish thought, he knows that, but the second—third (he can’t keep track anymore) loss of a parent makes him feel like one again.

“Okay,” Paul says gently. “Okay, we don’t have to talk.”

He sighs and John wishes he had the decency to apologize for being such a prick. Then again, he also wishes he had his mum back. 

Paul strums softly on his guitar. John tries to carry on like nothing has happened, like his thoughts aren’t eaten alive by the sorrow. But the music has left his fingers; he stares at them, motionless on the strings. Why did he even bring the goddamn thing over? Everything around him now is just a reminder of the one person who no longer is. 

“She’s dead…,” he says, not even sure if he had meant to. The words hang between them, cold like death in the throat. He clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, shakes his head. “She’s dead and talkin’ about it doesn’t bring her back.”

The music stops. John counts the seconds. Maybe one, maybe a million. How many seconds pass between life and death?

“But it doesn’t keep her alive either,” Paul says. His voice is closer, but John doesn’t open his eyes to see where it is. “They’ll only die a second death if you force yourself to forget the memories.”

A tear slides down his cheek when he opens his eyes. Paul is right next to him—always next to him—and his own eyes are wet, like the wounds are reopening. “When did it end for you?” John asks, _pleads_. “The pain, when does it stop?”

Grimly Paul shakes his head and it’s all the answer he needs. “I think about her all the time. Her smile, her hair. The details get fuzzy, but I can always see her.” He clears his throat, blinks rapidly. “Then one day you wake up and the pain is still there, in some weird place you can’t quite scratch because you bury it under the best memories and stories you have so that you don’t feel it so much anymore. Just… _never_ let yourself forget.”

The tears flow freely now. John lets his guitar fall to the floor, lets it get scratched and beaten in all the same ways that he is, and buries himself into Paul’s arms. A hand runs up and down his back as he cries.

Two names drift around the room, untouched…unspoken. 

Julia and Mary.

“I miss her so fucking much,” John murmurs.

Paul holds him tighter. “Me too, love.”


	24. good god you're a sweet thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 62: “I think it’s time for you to go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> currently sick and miserable and wishing i could be out running laps around the neighborhood. till then, i'm working to have smth for halloween. so far it's going well for a change
> 
> title from hozier's cover of van morrison's "sweet thing", listening to it on repeat rn bc it's fucking amazing

“C’mon, Macca, yer gonna have to pick up your feet a little more than that,” John says, pulling him even closer to his side and supporting most of the weight.

Completely ignoring him, Paul complains loudly into his ear, “They cut me off! We were havin’ a good time, we were all havin’ a—havin’ a good time!”

“I think that was just you, love. Havin’ a good enough time for all of us.”

“You weren’t havin’ a good time?” he asks worriedly. His eyes are big and glazed as they stare into John’s, pulling him breath by breath into a world unknown. 

“Oh no, I was,” John assures him. _If only from watching you…._

One drink turned into four as if by sleight of hand, then Paul was a firecracker on stage. Skirting around the pub like a match was under his arse, fucking around with John on stage, sneaking an entwinement of pinkies when he thought no one was looking. Always so free as a bird that John is never quite sure how he managed to catch him all those years ago.

They come to a street lamp, one right outside of John’s home, and Paul drags them over to it with glittering eyes. “Dance with me, Johnny!” he calls out into the empty night.

John squeezes both of his hands. “We’ve done enough dancing tonight, love. Let’s head inside, yeah?”

“Bollocks! You can never do enough dancing!” Like a cut-loose marionette he throws his arms around John’s neck. He smells like booze and cigarettes and everything John loves.

Unable to resist, John edges them towards the outskirts of the light, half-shadowed and half-lit, and encircles him in his arms. Paul smiles widely and John thinks about drawing him into a dance under every lamp they pass just to keep him smiling like that.

“If you spew on me jacket, I’ll pummel ya,” John jokes lightly, because wit always comes easier than sincerity.

Still smiling, Paul rests his head on his shoulder. “Nooo, you love me, you do.”

“I love you do,” John singsongs quietly into his ear, lips brushing his hair.

With a quiet giggle Paul plants a kiss on his neck. Gently John sways them beneath the song of the stars, pirouetting across the sky. He feels more drunk now than when he left the pub—drunk on moonlight and Paul’s warmth. He kisses the top of Paul’s head, feels him sigh against him. 

“I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” John murmurs, finds himself the only thing keeping Paul on his feet.

“And shag?”

“And _sleep_ ,” he laughs.

Paul groans and finally lifts his head. Eyes still closed, he puckers his lips and waits for John to do the rest. Smiling softly, he brings a hand to Paul’s cheek, traces his bottom lip with his thumb, and kisses him. Two, three times—overdosing on the taste.

Eventually he’s able to coax Paul out of the street and into his bed.

But left under the dull yellow light are their shadows, still laughing and swaying in the night.


	25. 06/07/1957

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22: "Scoot over. I wanna sit next to you."

The féte has been over for a couple of hours now, but Paul is still in the back of the church with The Quarrymen. They’re drunk, rowdy, and impressed to no end by Paul’s talents. Hovering over his shoulder at the piano, John watches his fingers slide deftly along the keys with wild fascination.

“What  _ don’t _ you play?” he asks, and the wonder in his voice sends a shiver of pride up Paul’s spine.

He smiles, still watching his own hands, and shrugs. “Bass?”

“Scoot over,” John suddenly says, patting his shoulder. “I wanna sit next to you.”

“Oh,” Paul murmurs quietly and his hands slip up on the keys. He slides over on the tiny piano bench, then suddenly he and John are the closest they’ve been all evening. Pressed together at the thighs, elbows knocking. Two observations Paul makes first: he reeks of alcohol and he has beautiful hands.

“Do that again,” John says.

Paul clears his throat, tries to remember what it even was that he did. “What, this?” His right hand picks up where it left off.

John shakes his head. “No, no, with your other hand.”

“This?” With his left hand he taps out a quick chord progression.

“Yeah.” A small smile forms on John’s lips as he studies Paul’s hands, then replicates the quick dance of his fingers flawlessly. “Yeah, that.”

Paul almost can’t believe this is the same bloke who only hours earlier asked him if he played with himself. Then so cocky and intimidating…now so affable and curious. When John first took an interest to his playing Paul thought he was just taking the piss. But there’s an eagerness in his eyes that can’t be faked.

Quietly John adlibs his own lyrics just like he did on stage. Paul remembers some of them so he can jot them down later. Their hands bump constantly and he half expects sparks to shoot up between them just from the momentum. 

Songs from the radio amalgamate with songs from their heads. Paul isn’t quite sure what is happening with the music anymore—only knows that it’s something grand and uncontrollable. 

“Oi, Lennon!” one of his bandmates calls, carrying the cymbals from the drum kit in his hands. “Help us load up this shit!”

“Bloody useless bastards,” John murmurs, eyes still set on the keys like he would’ve stayed here all evening if he could.

Paul laughs quietly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that the music has stopped.

Swaying slightly, John gets up from the bench and heads back over to his mates. That red checkered shirt and rock-‘n’-roll smirk are imprinted to Paul’s memory. He exchanges a few words with one of the lads, picks up the washboard and guitar, then turns his attention to Paul one last time. 

“See ya ‘round, McCartney!”

And yeah, Paul sort of hopes so.


	26. love and war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4: “You shouldn’t have gone by yourself.”; 58: “Is that blood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't ask why I did a war ficlet, but I did a war ficlet bc I was in a war mood at the time and there's only so much canon you can do sometimes

Rain and mud and shit fills the trenches. Bullets zip through the air like insects, their stings fatal. 

Paul clutches his dog tags like an amulet between his dirty fingers, keeping his head low. “Please come back,” he murmurs over and over to himself. Hopes some distant god can hear him over the carnage and warfare. Every now and then he peeks over the mound hoping to see a flash of auburn hair somewhere.

It feels like it’s been hours. Where the fuck is he?

Paul chews on his bottom lip until he tastes blood. He told John not to go. He _begged_ him not to go. They didn’t need the radio anyway. Once they get out of this hellhole they can find it then, or report back to base. They don’t _need_ reinforcements. If they just wait it out…if they just _survive._

Why does he always have to be the hero?

“McCartney!” Sgt. Harrison shouts. “Pick up that weapon and do something!”

Through the stars in his eyes Paul sees the mud and sweat caked on his young face—so young. Desperately he wants an excuse not to pick up his gun, not to kill. He’s not a killer. He doesn’t have lead in his blood like the rest of these blokes.

He peeks over the trenches one last time and finally sees him. The auburn hair, the circular glasses, the thick eyebrows furrowed and speckled with grit. And most importantly he’s unscathed. With the radio tucked close against his chest, he jumps back into the trench.

Paul feels like crying, he’s so relieved. “Jesus Christ, you fucking _idiot,”_ he says, laughing, but his body soon runs cold when John passes off the radio.

His hands are smeared red; the back of the radio is wet.

“Is that blood?” Paul asks shakily. The panic rises and festers as the realization clicks. “Oh God, John, is that blood? Oh _fuck_!”

John leans back until he’s slumped over against the wall of the trench. He moves his right hand and there’s a hole in his uniform, to the right of his ribcage, blood oozing out of it. “Paul,” he says slowly. “Paul, calm down.”

“You shouldn’t have gone by yourself. Fuck, John, you got _shot_!”

“You have your guard down for one second.” He laughs softly, then grimaces and tightens the hold on his chest. “Pretty sure it…it grazed me lung.”

“No, no, no,” Paul moans. “What do I—what do I do?”

His hands hover around John’s chest, too afraid to touch him anywhere. Stomach in knots, he feels ill, helpless.

John grabs hold of his hesitant hands, looks pointedly into his eyes. “Go find Ritchie, alright?”

Frowning, he shakes his head adamantly. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Paul—”

“George!” he yells instead. “George, go get Starkey, quick!” 

The man looks inconvenienced until his eyes notice John, and he drops his gun to dart through the trench. 

Paul turns back to John, looking paler now unless it’s just his imagination. He runs his spare hand over John’s clammy forehead, helps apply pressure to the wound with the other one. “Don’t leave me,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “You can’t leave me.”

John is the only thing that keeps him fighting—the only reason he doesn’t run head-on into the gunfire just to end it all. Without John there’s no reason left to fight. Paul can’t lose him. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, forces back the tears.

“Shh, hey,” John whispers, “it’ll take more than a bullet to keep me away from you.”

Paul grips the bloody hand beneath his own tighter. A tear slips down his cheek. He wants to lean down and kiss John, remind him how much he loves him. But in the distance he sees Ritchie rushing towards them with his medical bag and only hopes John can read it in his eyes.


	27. I Won't Share You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47: “You’re not making any sense.” and 55: “I’m not jealous!”

Paul feels the tension curdling in the air but doesn’t know how to circumvent it. He’s always hated bringing his two lives together into one room, and these days it’s getting harder and harder to avoid. Jane keeps a hand on his leg like she’s claiming him, and Paul keeps his eyes on John’s like he’s pleading for some understanding.

He isn’t getting it.

John has a tumbler of scotch in his hand and a fire in his eyes—always a lethal combination. He hardly contributes anything to the conversations that aren’t snide remarks. Paul feels his patience running thin, can see it on George and Ringo’s faces, too.

“Jane, tell me, love,” John suddenly interrupts, tone sickeningly sweet. A sneer sits propped up in the corner of his mouth. “How is it that birds get off, eh?” 

Paul fixes him with stony eyes, warns, “John.”

But he downs another slug of scotch and squints past the acrimony that sits like a guest at the table. “What exactly d’you do with those pretty little fingers of yours?”

“Knock it off, mate,” Paul tries again, voice darker.

Jane smiles meekly, never intimidated by John’s affronts but too sophisticated to fire back at him. She _has_ removed her hand from his leg, though. Paul feels like he’s losing both of them.

“She’s a big girl, Paulie, let ‘er speak for herself.”

There’s only a brief moment where he thinks better of it. But before he can grab hold to that slice of better judgement, the words slip out. “Never has to use ‘em, does she?”

John narrows his eyes at him; Paul tastes the sting of his own words in his mouth. Then John is abruptly standing from the table while Paul bites the inside of his cheek and watches him storm off to the restroom. 

He smiles apologetically to everyone at the table before following after him.

“Way to draw attention to us out there,” Paul says coldly when he walks in. 

John snorts. He leans against the wall with a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Oh, so there’s an ‘us’ now?”

Paul sighs and crosses his arms. “Alright, what is it? What’s your fuckin’ deal?”

“Don’t worry about me,” John murmurs with a plume of smoke escaping his lips. “Go back out there to your piece of London cunt.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Paul says, louder now. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You sound so jealous, it’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not jealous!” John says and tosses his barely-smoked fag to the floor.

“Then why are you bein’ such a shit to her and making us all uncomfortable?!”

“Why’d you have to _bring_ her, Paul?” Finally he hears a shade of hurt creeping into John’s voice. And he hates it—hates that they can’t be together the way they want. “First time we all have to ourselves in months and you bring her along.”

Paul knew it would end disastrously. He pleaded with Brian to send the girls out together while the rest of them had a short dinner to themselves, but Jane had insisted she wanted to spend time with him before she flew out for her next gig in London. “I told you I couldn’t get out of it this time,” he reminds John. “What was I supposed to do?! And anyway she’s got just as much a right to be on this tour as Cyn does.”

John glares at him. “That’s different and you know it.”

“How?! How is that different, John?”

“Because I didn’t have a choice!”

“And I _do_? You’re the one who made it this way, y’know,” Paul tells him with a finger jabbing the air. “You said I should shack up to make things less suspicious, so I did. What else do you want from me?!”

“Nothing,” John says quietly, pushing past him and the entire conversation. “Fuck whoever you want, mate.” 

The door slams shut behind him, still quieter than the frustration left roaring through Paul’s blood.


	28. i way down kneel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 52: “Why don’t you tell me why you really came here tonight?”; 108: “You should close the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone has a wonderful day whether you’re celebrating thanksgiving or not! didn’t plan to post today, but i guess i am.
> 
> i’m v excited to say chapter one of “All the Pretty Boys” is abt halfway done and i’m doing my damndest to make sure it’s what i envisioned. on top of that i’m also thinking of doing a christmas one shot but haven’t decided yet. rlly wanna get the new chapter fic out first. in the meantime, here’s another ficlet for y’all!

It’s a quarter after one in the morning when there’s a knock at the door of Kenwood. John hauls himself off the couch, clad in nothing but a white undershirt and his boxers, and opens the door. Admittedly it comes as a shock to see Paul standing at his door—an acoustic in his hand and his messenger bag slung across one shoulder. Especially after what happened the other night. 

John crosses his arms coolly. “What’re you doing here?”

“You told me we’d write tonight,” Paul says jauntily, lifting his guitar higher for emphasis.

John raises an eyebrow. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“Johnny, Johnny, gettin’ into old age, you are,” he jokes, shaking his head as he attempts to step into the house.

But John can smell the bullshit exuding from him as though he’d stepped in it on the way over. He grabs the opposite side of the door-jamb, blocking him from crossing the threshold. Paul stops, chest pressed to his arm.

John’s mind flashes back to a couple nights ago, a night just like this one. It was a moment he could feel happening before it did. Paul made a daft joke. They smiled at each other across the lyric sheet. The air around them shifted dizzyingly. John leaned in to do what he had thought about for years. 

He remembers his hand closing around their paper as they kissed, remembers every wrinkle in his palm, and wonders if Paul still has it in that bag. Because now he’s at John’s door like he doesn’t remember what happened at their last writing session.

But now John realizes he has the upper hand. 

_Paul_ came back to _him._ Even after he flushed red and mumbled some half-arsed excuse and left John sitting dumbly on his bedroom floor, _he_ still came back to _him_.

Lowering his voice to a murmur, John says, “Why don’t you tell me why you really came here tonight?”

“I just told you—”

“Not that load of shite.” He narrows his eyes slightly, tilts his head closer. “Why are you _really_ here?”

Paul eyes shift between John’s. His adam’s apple lifts and drops. “I…I needed an excuse to see you,” he hesitantly relents. 

“But I thought you weren’t a _queer_ , remember?”

He can still hear the way Paul said it—the certainty in his voice despite the contradiction of his kiss.

Paul flinches at the word like John has slapped him across the face with it. “‘M not, but…ever since that night you kissed me, it’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

No matter how true that is for John, as well, he won’t give Paul the satisfaction of knowing it. Not after how idiotic he felt after the first time.

“Tell me what you want, then,” he says, voice dark as the night.

“‘M not gonna stand here and beg.”

“Tell me, Paul.”

He takes a deep breath, cuts his eyes to John’s lips. “I want you to kiss me again.”

“You gonna fuck off again this time?”

Paul shakes his head and it’s fine that he doesn’t speak, because the words are no longer needed.

Slowly John removes his hand from the doorway and brings it to Paul’s chin. He drags his thumb over the small dimple there, then higher up to his bottom lip. Paul keeps his eyes closed like he’s savoring every touch, every moment of anticipation.

But John finally breaks it when he presses their lips together. 

Paul sighs faintly through his nose; John feels it on his cheek like another kiss. He moves his hand to Paul’s shoulder while their lips slide rhythmically. It doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, lips growing curious to taste everything they’d missed. And somehow Paul tastes better now than he did the other night. Maybe because John knows he has him for good this time. 

They stumble backwards until they’re finally inside the house. Paul drops his messenger bag from his shoulder and props his guitar against the wall. Hands free, he places one on John’s lower back and one beneath his jaw, drawing him closer. 

John moves his kisses lower, febrile pecks and teasing licks planted to his neck. Paul moans softly and John wants to spend the rest of the night coaxing more of those sinful sounds from his lips.

“You should close the door,” he whispers hotly into Paul’s ear, sliding his hand to the button of his trousers.


	29. nothing fucks with my baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3: “What happened to your hand(s)?”; 58: “Is that blood?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god there are still so many of these left to post. should I just start going at it two chapters at a time??

“Shit,” Paul is muttering to himself as he stumbles back into their room at the Bambi Kino.

John looks up from his letters and smiles. “You callin’ it early, too?” He shakes his head. “I expected better of you, love.”

Paul doesn’t answer him. He hauls his bag onto the end of John’s bunk, rifles hastily through it, then curses again. 

In the low lighting John notices his hands glistening, stained red. Frowning, he pushes his letters aside. “What happened to your hands?” He scoots down the bed and grabs Paul’s wrist. Streaks of blood bespeckle his knuckles, tiny cuts mark his palms. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah. Some of it’s mine, some of it ain’t.” He chuckles halfheartedly.

John looks at him, only to find a split lip and bruised cheek glaring back at him. “Shit, babe, and your face, too.” All at once everything clicks, and John sees red. “Who did it? Tell me who did it—I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.”

“John, it’s fine,” Paul says tiredly. “Bastard’s probably gone by now anyway.”

“It’s not fine, Paul, look at you.” He winces when John gently cradles his face in his hands. Before he lets himself rush out the door with fists ready for a fight, he focuses on Paul. “Here, c’mon,” he says, standing from the bed and leading him by the wrist to the ladies toilets next door.

Paul stands by the sinks, inspecting his face in the mirror, while John looks around for napkins somewhere in this sorry excuse for a cinema. When he finds none he pulls his t-shirt over his head, rips a strip of fabric from the bottom of it, and runs it under the warm water. “Here,” he murmurs, bringing it to Paul’s bleeding hands first.

“Hey, no,” he protests, trying to pull his hands away, “you’ll ruin your shirt.”

“It’s just a bloody shirt, Macca.” John laughs quietly, shrugs. “Well, it’s about to be.”

Paul sighs but doesn’t fight it; he’s probably tired of fighting. While John wipes away the blood, he closes and opens his jaw like he’s trying to work the soreness out of it. The anger creeps up John’s spine again like a bloodsucking insect.

“So what happened?” he asks, forcibly calm.

“Me ‘n this bloke got into it. Was on my way to come see you, accidentally knocked his pint outta his hand, and next thing I know we’re rolling ‘round on the floor. Pissed outta his ‘ead, he was.”

John holds Paul’s left hand closer to his myopic eyes as he cleans the series of thin cuts on his palm. He strokes his thumb idly along Paul’s, if only for the comfort it offers for himself. “What’re all these cuts from?”

“Pint glass that shattered on the floor. Barmy fucker went for some of the shards before somebody pulled ‘im off.”

“Dammit, Paul,” John murmurs, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“No, no, I know.” He sighs. “Just…I had a gut feelin’ I shouldn’t’ve left early. Didn’t fuckin’ listen to it.”

“And what would you have done?”

John turns his attention to the busted lower lip, dabbing it tenderly with the cloth. “Kicked his fuckin’ arse,” he says surely. 

Paul turns his head slightly and kisses the pulse of John’s wrist. “I held me own, y’know. You should see the other guy.”

“What’d he look like?” John asks, cocking an eyebrow. He’s still got his mind set on tracking this fucker down, but apparently Paul can read the thought on his face.

“You’re not goin’ back there,” he says, adamant. “We don’t need two of us lookin’ like this.”

John rinses the cloth—a sea of red runs down the drain—then ties it around the knuckles of his left hand. “Well, you look kinda hot, y’know.”

A small smirk pulls onto Paul’s lips. He puts a hand on John’s naked waist, bringing him closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans in to peck the corner of Paul’s mouth that isn’t damaged. “Dangerous. _Rugged_.”

Paul laughs. “Maybe I should get into barnies more often, then, eh?”

“Alright, let’s not get carried away now,” John is quick to say.


	30. hitting the books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teddy boys; 14: “Your laugh is so adorable.”; 38: “You’re such a nerd.”

John sighs exaggeratedly, hoping to finally get a reaction this time, but Paul’s head still stays bowed over the books on his desk. He rolls his eyes.

He’s given up on playing guitar, because it’s less enjoyable without Paul to fool around with him, and he downright refuses to be as studious as the lad. So by default John has resigned himself to waiting impatiently on the bed and trying not to fall asleep to the faint scratch of the pencil.

“You’re such a nerd,” he says, idly staring at the back of Paul’s head. “You know that?”

Paul snorts quietly, flips a page in his book. “I’m sure you’ve mentioned it before.”

“Rock n’ roll singers don’t need good marks, Macca.”

“Maybe not, but lads who still want a roof over their heads do.”

“When we’re rich I’ll buy you all the roofs you want.” He crooks an arm behind his head as visions of stage lights and screaming crowds drift by in his mind like clouds. “Gable, Dutch, flat, you name it.”

Paul glances over his shoulder at him, an eyebrow raised. “You know that many types of roofs and you call _me_ a nerd?”

“Shurrup,” John mumbles and hates the smug look he receives before Paul turns around again.

Back to his damn books. 

John hauls himself from the bed and walks over to the desk. As his hands slide down Paul’s chest and his lips brush his ear, he notices the pencil slowing, losing its grace. A smirk creeps onto the corner of his mouth.

Lowly he whispers, “I’ve got something you can study that’s twice as hard as a book and far more entertaining.”

Paul throws his head back against his chest laughing, fingers ditching his pencil to curl around the hand John has resting against his sternum. It’s a beautiful sight, a heavenly sound—like trumpets preluding the arrival of an archangel. John grins as he watches him, eyes tracing the crinkled laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

He could stare for hours.

“Your laugh is so adorable,” he says with a kiss to Paul’s forehead. Lightly he rakes his fingers through the front of his messy quiff, and Paul hums, eyes closed.

“Yer just tryin’ to get me into bed,” he murmurs.

John squeezes his shoulders. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“I could try harder.”

“No!” Paul laughs.

“Please? Just a quick one?”

“ _Jooohn—”_

“Ooh, don’t say it like that, baby, you’re not helping anyone.”

“I need to study,” Paul says, smacking his chest but still smiling. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.”

John rolls his eyes and groans. “Fine.” He gives Paul some space and dramatically flops back onto the bed. “But don’t go actin’ all interested if you start hearing noises over here.”

From the desk Paul shakes his head and smiles at him sweetly. “Ta, love. And I think I’ll be able to control myself.”

John waves him off.

A few minutes of page flipping, word scrawling, and ceiling staring pass before he finally pipes up again, “You know…you could always just read the book _whilst_ I suck you off. Just make sure you don’t drop it on your face when you come.”

Paul lets out another boisterous laugh, laying his head on the table.

John smiles; he’s okay with waiting a few more hours.


	31. Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um you don't have to write this if you don't want to because I don't wanna be a bother or anything but I just really love the thought of John and Paul at a holiday party together or something and they accidentally end up under the mistletoe together and they just sneak a quick kiss when no one's watching and when they pull away they're kinda just giddy because managed to get away with it with no one noticing (and they got to kiss and that's always good)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> breaking up the dialogue prompts real quick to post two holiday ficlets I did a couple weeks ago

Paul didn’t expect such a large turnout when the band was invited to the Christmas party of one of Brian’s business friends. There are a few other groups here—Gerry and his lot, the Moody Blues—and a handful of managers and photographers. On his third flute of champagne now, Paul is more concerned with having a good time than chatting about the industry rot he deals with every other day of the year.

Taking a breather from it all, he veers off down a short hallway in search of a loo when a hand grips his arm. But his frown quickly gives way to a smile from the sight of John’s warm, alcohol-heavy eyes. The hand slides down his arm, lingering for a moment against his own. 

With a crooked grin John says, “There you are.”

“Yeah. Place is bloody crowded.”

“I know. I’ve hardly seen you all night.”

Paul sighs. “‘M sorry, love, keep gettin’ pulled aside for a chat every minute. Fucking exhausting.”

“What d’ye say we slip off? Have a laugh,” he suggests quietly, their personal code for indulging in a few hits from a joint. “Or a snog, whichever you fancy.”

As appealing as both of those sound, Paul is well aware of the risk. “You know we can’t do that, John, too many eyes here. But we’ll catch a break soon enough, alright?”

He already feels awful for not affording his lover as much of his time as all these other posh, professional types are getting at the party. Entrapped in their dull jabber isn’t how he envisioned spending his holidays. But apparently a roaring fire, tumblers full of whisky, and John’s talented hands unwrapping his body like a present is too much to ask. God, he wishes sneaking off were that easy.

John passes him an earnest look. “I’ll hold you to that, McCartney.”

With a tight-lipped apologetic smile, he smooths a thumb over John’s cheek before reluctantly starting back down the rest of the hallway. Yet again, he’s pulled back. When he eyes John questioningly, his amber eyes merely lift to the ceiling, and Paul follows his gaze. 

To the mistletoe hanging above their heads.

“Bad luck not to kiss under the mistletoe, you know,” John says, smirking.

A soft smile stretches across Paul’s lips as though he’s watching a freshly fallen snow, even though John’s eyes are far too warm and melting for that.

Biting his lip, he checks both ends of the hallway for any prying eyes. Then he leans in to plant a chaste kiss on John’s lips. One—two more. Still not nearly enough, but as much as they can get away with right now. Like a pair of teenagers tiptoeing around a house full of parents.

“Come back to mine tonight?” Paul whispers, hopeful.

Slowly John opens his eyes, smiling like he’s just been given a present he was convinced he’d never receive. And Paul wants to drag him under every mistletoe in this damn house just to make that look a permanent one. 

“Absolutely.”

Just before they have to part ways again, he watches John reach up and pluck the mistletoe from its hook on the ceiling. At Paul’s curious frown, he ambiguously explains, “For later,” with a leer that has Paul reconsidering his earlier refusal to that quick snog outside.


	32. Swaying in the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What about new years eve, a littlr too much champagne, just Psul and John, noise makers, dancing in the kitchen, and of course, a kisd at midnight.

The record player from the living room croons  _ Spanish Harlem, _ Ben E. King’s sensuous debut album, into the kitchen. Glasses of champagne balanced in their hands, they sway their hips just as the second number on the track implores they do. The rhythm of their feet lacks finesse, but their drunken laughter shows how little they care. 

_ “Only you have that magic technique,” _ Paul sings sultrily, fingers fiddling with the short hairs above John’s nape and watching heat flicker in his eyes.  _ “When we sway I go weak.” _

With a flirtatious smirk on his lips John spins him, wraps himself around him just like that ocean hugging the shore in the lyrics. For a few beats they sway like that, Paul closing his eyes and tilting his head for the tender kisses John tacks to his neck.

“You’re supposed to save those for midnight.” 

John nibbles at his earlobe, murmuring hotly, “You make it awfully hard to wait that long, love.”

And Paul wouldn’t dream of spending his New Year’s Eve any other way. He’s already had his fair share of rowdy parties and empty kisses with strangers at midnight. Champagne-drunk and dancing barefoot in the kitchen with his lover until the clock strikes twelve is the way it’s supposed to be. Makes him believe from here the new decade can only rise and scatter into thousands of popping colors like a Roman candle.

After the drums roll at the end of the song, John puffs on a noisemaker, thrusting its plastic and royal blue tip into Paul’s cheek. Then puffs again and again, incessantly poking him with it like a flimsy finger. 

Swatting at it, Paul laughs, “Stop!”

John holds it in place with his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows triumphantly.

This time he tries snatching it from his mouth, but his boyfriend ducks out of the way and they soon find themselves in a playful tussle on the floor. Fingers driving beneath ribcages and hips straddling hips and mouths smothering protests. 

But in the middle of John struggling against his hands to get free, Paul notices the time on the clock by the fridge. Almost midnight.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“What?” John asks, short-winded and wary, no stranger to Paul’s deceptive stunts during their roughhousing.

“Five….”

Turning his head to see the shifting hands of the clock, he grins widely and joins the countdown: “Four…three…two…one—”

Then Paul is leaning down, hands still locked around John’s wrists, and planting the first kiss of the new year on his lips. He tastes like cheap champagne and last year’s laughter. The kiss goes on for longer than intended, John grabbing his arse while Paul lowers himself on top of him. Both of them tipsy and in love right there in the middle of the kitchen floor. 

Putting space between them, he warmly smiles down at John and nudges his nose. Those kaleidoscopic sparks in John’s eyes are the only celebratory fireworks Paul needs.

“Happy New Year, Johnny.”

He places a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, whispering, “Happy New Year, baby.”


	33. Sweet Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 98: “Come inside. I don’t want you to get sick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to our regularly scheduled program

“Paul?! Paul, please just open the goddamn door!”

The only pound louder than the torrential rain outside is that of John’s fist at his door. He’s been out there for roughly ten minutes now, yelling and cursing at him. But Paul keeps ignoring him.

“I saw you in the fuckin’ window, you prick,” he shouts again.

Paul chews on his thumbnail, contemplates other places to which he should’ve fled after he stormed out of practice. He was too heated to go anywhere but home. Of course John followed.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” John says, voice softer but still loud enough to be heard. “I didn’t mean any of that shit I said. You were right, we don’t need a leader anymore, we’ve all got a say in what the band does.” A pause, deafeningly loud. “And, Christ, yer playin’ is fine, I was just—I knew that’d get to you. It was a daft thing to say.”

It’s no easier to hear that John dug his nails in on purpose, but at least he’s fessing up to it. They know the drill by now. Have it out in front of the other lads, pour your sorrows out on the doorstep late at night when the regret kicks in and no one else is around to see you being soft for another bloke. This isn’t the first time and certainly won’t be the last.

Paul gets up and walks to the door. 

“I’ll stay out here—” he opens the door. John straightens up like he’s surprised he actually did, then quieter, he finishes, “All night if I have to….”

His fringe is plastered to his forehead. His clothes stick to his skin like wet rags. Fat raindrops roll down his cheeks, cling to his eyelashes. He looks beautiful and miserable.

“I have neighbors, you know.”

A shrug. “I don’t care.”

Paul laughs dryly. “There’s a lot you don’t care about.”

John’s body sags with the weight of those words. “C’mon, Paul,” he says helplessly, “you know I care about you. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?”

“Come inside,” he says with a sigh, stepping away from the doorway. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

John runs his hand through his dripping hair and follows behind him, dejected. 

“I’ll, um, I’ll get you something,” Paul mumbles and heads upstairs for a towel while John stands drenched like a stray dog by the door. He comes back down to see John has taken off his boots, staring at them on the floor. And when he reaches out a hand to give him the towel, John grabs  _ him _ instead.

He pulls Paul into a tight hug—burying his face into his neck, body melting into him like the rain has liquified him. He leaves wet kisses on Paul’s neck, cheek. Apologies he feels seeping beneath his skin.

He sighs and wraps his arms around John, brings the towel up to gently dry his hair. “You’re such an arsehole sometimes,” he mumbles, but he’s leaning into every touch.   


“I know,” John says softly, his cold nose pressed to Paul’s warm neck. “I’m sorry.”

“We gotta stop havin’ these rows. It’s bloody exhausting.”

“I never mean it, you know.” He lifts his head and looks deeply into his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“Yeah.” Paul presses his lips together, swipes his thumb over the raindrops on John’s cheek. “Always do. God knows why,” he adds lightheartedly.

John catches his hand and kisses his knuckles. Speaks right into their divots, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Softly Paul kisses him before ruffling his hair with the towel. “Now get out of these wet clothes while I make you a cuppa.”

Eyes a touch brighter now, John kisses him one last time before doing as told.

Paul watches him go up the stairs and thinks,  _ I know why. _


	34. Young and Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 67: “You’re not scared of the dark, are you?”

“You’re not scared of the dark, are you?” John whispers into his ear.

Paul smiles and John can feel his cheeks lifting against the side of his hand that is pressed over his eyes. “Johnny, c’mon, where are we going?”

“To the toppermost of the poppermost, baby!”

Blindly Paul swats his hand backwards and clips him in the side. “John!”

“It’s a surprise, love.” He nuzzles his cheek, kisses it. “We’re almost there, I promise.”

In the distance he sees the shoreline, the moonlight reflected in the waves. They’re moseying along at a snail’s pace because Paul is still too cautious with every step despite John guiding him. But John is convinced time stands still in Scotland anyway, so he isn’t too bothered with rushing either.

“I hear water,” Paul murmurs quietly. 

John chuckles softly and squeezes his shoulder. “Perceptive lad, you are.”

“Can I look now?” He pulls at John’s pinky finger, but the hand stays put.

“Not yet, not yet.”

Paul huffs petulantly. 

They finally step onto the rocky shore and John moves around front to guide Paul across the rocks more safely. “Alright, mind the rocks now. I got you.”

He keeps a tight grip on John’s hand, the other twisted loosely in his t-shirt. “If I break me neck, I’m drownin’ you in whatever water it is I hear.”

“Even with a broken neck?” John laughs.

“Even with a broken neck.”

He positions Paul in front of the water, the tide coming in just before their feet, then stands behind him again so he can have the full view. Wearing a smile that refuses to fade, John whispers, “Annnd open,” with an air of magic as he finally uncovers Paul’s eyes.

He blinks a few times like he just resurfaced, then looks around at the water and moonlight and wave-beaten rocks in the distance. They’re both quiet, drowning in it. 

“It’s beautiful,” Paul murmurs, shaking his head as though he can’t believe it.

“Yeah. I wanted to come out when no one else was here.”

Paul turns his head to look at him, a small smile in tow. “Is John Lennon a romantic now?”   


“No, I just knew I had to woo you ‘fore ye’d give head,” he teases with a squeeze to Paul’s side.

Another swat to his chest and a playful, “You arse.”

The temperature is cooler, breezes skipping across their skin. John wraps the blanket they brought around his own shoulders, then Paul’s. He settles his chin on his shoulder and his arms around his waist, surrounding him like waves. They keep their eyes on the sea and all of its possibilities.

“What if we lived here someday?” John says quietly. “In Scotland.”

Paul leans farther into him, smiles against his neck. “Like on a farm or something?”

“Sure. I could be the big burly man chopping wood outside while you bring me tea in your skimpy housewife apron.”

He laughs loudly into the sea, and John can feel it beneath his hands. “Fuck off, you’d be useless with an axe, you would. I’ll be the one doing the outdoors work.”

John doesn’t really care who does what. He just wants this. With a sudden visceral desire he  _ needs _ this. 

“It could be a cottage, like. And we could build our own studio, have a fuck ton of land, some animals.” In the corridors of his mind he sees every room, every intimate moment that will happen there. Paul’s laughter on the walls, a fire roaring in the fireplace, no one and nothing for acres every which way. “Just you and me.”

Paul is looking at him with electricity in his eyes probably brought on by the salt in the air. He’s so young and beautiful that John wants to box him up right now and keep him untouched from life’s malevolent fingers. He wants him all to himself.

“I think you  _ are _ turning into a romantic,” he tells John, who feels safe spilling all of his secrets to Paul and the sea.

“Maybe a little bit. But only for you.”

Paul pecks him gently on the lips. “Good.”


	35. Tell the Rooftops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 93: “Don’t make me tape your mouth shut.”; 99: “Have you lost your mind?”

Jazz music from the nearby clubs blows down the street like a breeze. People gather in small clusters on corners and against the walls of closed shops, white faces against black windows. John and Paul wander down the streets, both a little tipsy and mouths stained red from the sweet Parisian wine. 

Shaking his head with a laugh, Paul asks, “When’re we gonna admit to ourselves we’re lost?” 

“You’re never lost when you’re in love,” John singsongs and starts to dance along the pavement, “only found, found, found.”

He shoves John’s shoudler. “Reckon that means it’s up to me to get us back, then, yeah?” 

Paris brings out something in both of them that just isn’t there back at home—a liberation, a carelessness. Maybe it’s the air or that feeling that they’ve run away together, that they’ve pulled off something elaborate and grand. 

“I believe in you, baby.” John shoots him a wink. Then they walk a few more paces before, out of nowhere, he shouts, “I love Paul McCartney!” with his voice sailing down the street like one of the horns from the jazz bands.

Paul’s eyes widen and he quickly looks around, sees the smattering of people still walking the streets. “Have you lost your mind?” he hisses.

But John just smiles, all wine-stained teeth and starlit eyes. “Lost it at seventeen and haven’t found it since.”

“It shows.”

“I love Paul McCartney!” he shouts again, throwing his arms up this time like he wants to catch the words just so he can toss them back up again.

“Don’t make me tape your mouth shut,” Paul threatens. He wraps an arm around John’s shoulder and brings him close enough to get a hand over his mouth.

They come to a stop and Paul feels the imprint of a smile against his palm until John pulls the hand away to murmur, “Say it.” And he almost sounds winded, like the freedom of expression has knocked all the air from his lungs. 

“I love Paul McCartney,” Paul says quietly, smirking.

“No, no, you cheeky bastard,” he laughs. “Say you love me.”

Paul glances over John’s shoulder to the group of young men just down the street. “I love John Lennon,” he says, a declaration heard by no one but the two of them…soft just like it’s always been.

“Louder.”

He hesitates, then raises his voice. “I love John Lennon.”

“With your gut, son!”   


Throwing his head back and letting the words rise from the lowest point within himself, he shouts, “I love John Lennon!” and sees the stars rattle in the sky.

Grinning, John grabs his cheeks and plants kisses all over his face—cheeks, nose, eyebrows, lips. Giggles spilling from his lips, Paul scrunches his face up and easily forgets they’re still standing in the middle of the pavement.

_ Let them see, _ he thinks, but no one pays them any mind.

John pulls away and stares into his eyes. “Makes you feel invincible, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, and he feels it too now. The breathlessness, the lightheadedness from a declaration that takes a physical toll on the body when finally released after being pent-up for so long.

His lungs are empty and grateful.

John pulls him in again, this time kissing him square on the lips in front of the moon and everybody. Paul smiles against his lips and can’t believe they’re getting away with this. 

They’re  _ actually _ getting away with this.

His lungs start to inflate again.


	36. I Need You - I Don't Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8: “Would you just listen to me for two seconds?”; 11: “Get out of my way!”

They’re twisted around each other like snakes in John’s small bed when he says it. The word strikes Paul so hard that he instantly forgets the conversation beforehand—romantic movies or some such innocent thing. But when John laughs, “Oh God, you queer,” his stomach drops like a bag of bricks.

The fingers that had been roaming across John’s back still. Quietly Paul responds, “No ‘m not.”

John snorts, still not reading his tone. “I think the mattress would beg to differ, love,” he murmurs with a kiss to his chest.

Paul stares at the ceiling and tells himself not to overreact. Things were so warm and peaceful, but try as he might, the bothered crease won’t leave his brow.

John looks up at him, sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Oh bloody hell.”

At the annoyance in his voice, Paul slides out from under him and grabs his trousers from the floor. “It’s late,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact with John, who sits up in bed.

“Bollocks, you know that ain’t why you’re leaving.”

Paul doesn’t answer him. 

“You always do this. You always get so weird about those fuckin’ words.” 

“If you know I’m weird about ‘em, why do you keep usin’ ‘em?”

“They’re just _words,_ Paul,” he stresses, getting up now, too. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

They do when you’ve done something to earn them, and Paul has always shoved those worries to the bottommost corners of his mind. There was a time when words like that never fazed him—a time before he met John. Nowadays, however, they prick somewhere within him that he can’t quite see, like pins in a voodoo doll.

And he’s _not._ He’s not a queer or a nancy or a poof or any of those vicious words that float around like phantoms in his head. He’s just a bloke who accidentally fell for his best mate.

Shaking his head, he tries to step around John, but he blocks him. “Move please.”

“No.” John pushes his hand away when he reaches for the door handle. “You’re running again. I don’t know why you do it, because you come back every time. You want this as much as I do, but you don’t wanna admit it.” 

He clenches his jaw, but it isn’t enough to keep him from yelling, “Get out of my way!”

“No! Would you just listen to me for two seconds?”

“I’m tired of listening to you, John. All I _do_ is listen to you.”

He frowns, narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paul stares at him for a defiant second before his walls collapse. There’s no blame he can throw, no responsibility to dodge. He drops the t-shirt he still had yet to put on, not even sure if it’s John’s or his, and that fact just frustrates him even more. 

Their lines are too blurred.

“What’re we doing?” he asks helplessly, running a hand through his hair. “We’re in over our heads.”

A wave of hurt passes over John’s face, lightning-fast, as he shakes his head with a frown. “Don’t say that. Don’t try to tell me you don’t want this, too.”

Finally Paul sits on the edge of the bed, too afraid to stand so closely to the evidence before. Because now he feels the wrinkled sheets under him, sees the way John’s muscles stand out like the textured lines on a white canvas, hears the raspy break in his throat that catches on the end of Paul’s name, feels the curve of his own spine—arching and squirming on the bed like a sacrificial lamb. He buries his head in his hands to block it all out.

The bed dips and an arm wraps around his naked shoulders.

“I don’t know what it makes me,” John says softly, “but I…I like you. And I’m not ashamed of that.”

Paul turns into his arms, skin to skin, and hates how much he loves it, _needs_ it. “It’s just you,” he murmurs against his chest, tears welling in his eyes. “I’ve never wanted anybody else. I’m sorry, I don’t—I’m not a—”

“Don’t apologize for love,” he whispers, swimming his fingers through Paul’s hair. “It’ll never do the same for you.”

Paul clenches his eyes tighter, hiding from the words and the fears in the arms of his lover.

A single tear slides, slow and painful, down John’s chest.


	37. Bigger than Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 85: “I’ll be with you the whole time.”; 51: “I’ll never stop caring about you.”

“Why should I even have to apologize? All they’re doin’ is twistin’ me words.”

“I know this whole thing has been blown out of proportion,” Brian says, “but now you have to choose between your pride and your band. It’s no easy choice, I realize. Just go out there and say what we talked about, and then we’ll play it by ear from there, okay?”

John sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes. “Feel like I need a bloody drink before this.”

“And let’s stay away from the alcohol, shall we?”

He notices the quick look Brian gives Paul, who paces around the room with a fingernail between his teeth. They must think he needs a constant babysitter now more than ever. He feels like an absolute arse.

“Be down in five, lads,” Brian tells them as he opens the door.

“Ta, Eppy,” Paul says and the door shuts. He comes over to sit on the side of the armchair John is in and gives him a small but reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you the whole time. We all will, you’re not in this by yourself.”

“Managed to get  _ into _ it by myself, though, didn’t I?” He shakes his head and tries not to fall apart like he did a few days ago. “I’m sorry, Macca. If this is it for us, I’m sorry I cocked it up.”

Paul grabs his hand, strokes his knuckles. “This isn’t it for us. We’re still headed for the toppermost, yeah?”

“What if people stop caring about the band?” John asks, and the thought nearly makes him sick to his stomach.

“What if thunder was lightning?”

“Paul.”

He looks up at him, unamused, but Paul just raises his eyebrows earnestly.

“Fuck ‘em! If they’re too dense to stick around after a little jab at our Lord and Savior, we don’t need ‘em. What’s that He said about stones and sins anyway?”

A whisper of a smile tugs at the corner of John’s mouth. “He who is without stones may cast the first sin?”

“Right,” he laughs. “Bloody bunch of hypocrites.”

John leans his head against Paul’s side and closes his eyes. Fingers slowly card through his hair, soothing his troubled mind. It feels like they’ve just got started—a climb not even as high as he wanted, but the fall more brutal than he imagined. Why the fuck did he even have to bring religion into it?

“I’ll never stop caring about you,” Paul says softly. “If it’s any consolation.”

John lifts his head and smiles at him gently. He leans up for a kiss that makes him forget any religion that isn’t Paul’s touch. If only he could hide away in the hotel room with him until the world is ready for such controversial statements.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Paul’s fingers in his hair, until they finally have to go downstairs. At the door of their hotel room Paul straightens John’s tie and plants one last comforting kiss on his lips.

“Never let me do another bloody interview by myself,” John mutters.

“Don’t worry, this’ll all blow over soon when they find the next rock group to shit on.”

Chewing anxiously on his gum, John takes a deep breath as they step out into the hallway. 

He’s rehearsing some of the apologetic statements and potential questions when Paul says, “But John, love?”

“Mm?”

“Please just try to act like you mean it, yeah?”

“I will,” he answers. But with a cheeky grin he can’t quite resist, “I swear to God.”


	38. Something Trippy This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76: “You’re not alone, I’m right here.”

“I think he just needs a breather, boys. Up on the roof.”

Three pairs of eyes widen at the same time before Paul, George, and Ringo rush after them. By the time they catch up, George Martin has John standing on the side of the rooftop with the wind caressing his face, and Paul’s stomach drops at the thought of John having the sudden notion that he’s grown a pair of wings. 

The three of them gather around him like a border. Paul puts a hand on his chest, where his heart beats like a jackhammer, and gently advises, “John, love, why don’t we come back inside?”

“I took the wrong one, Paul,” he murmurs, eyes uncertain and apologetic. “I thought it was an upper. I took the wrong thing.”

“S’alright, don’t panic,” George says. “Let’s just get away from the edge here, yeah?”

They move him back towards the stairwell and Ringo whispers to Paul, “Think we should call it a night? He’ll be too gone to do anything.”

He sighs and nods.

After some concocted excuse to George Martin, he helps John into his car, which proves to be a feat in itself because every time Paul so much as nudges him, John jerks and laughs like every inch of his skin is ticklish. Eventually he gets him buckled and locks the doors for good measure.

Not long after they pull off John suddenly starts cackling like a madman, leaned up close to the windscreen with wide eyes. “Why’re you goin’ so fuckin’ fast, mate?!” he shouts with his hands braced on the dash.

Paul frowns, glances at the speedometer. “I’m not.”

“We—we’re gonna lose a tire, and—and then we’ll—ahaha!—we’ll be like those cave people on the telly with our foots in the floorboard!”

Paul lifts an eyebrow, giggling a bit himself now. “Foots?”

“Feet,” John squeaks out, head knocking against the passenger window as the laughter overtakes him. “I meant feet.”

When they finally make it to his house, Paul spends far too much time dragging John away from the “neon flowers” and “grassy grass” before they actually go inside. Reluctantly he leaves John to himself in the sitting room while he puts the kettle on. He must be gone for eons in John’s mind because no sooner does he pour the water, than he’s interrupted again.

“Paul! Paul! Paul!” John rhythmically chants from the other room, pressing a single sharp key on the piano each time.

At the sound of his name he hurriedly searches through John’s pillbox and finds another tab for himself.  _ Happy thoughts, _ he repeats to himself over and over, then places it on his tongue. 

Now he’ll be with him; they’ll be together.

He walks into the room to find John on his knees in front of the piano, tapping the keys with his nose instead of his fingers. “Hey, ‘m here. What’s wrong?”

“I thought you left me,” John says and sounds more worried than he looks.

Paul kneels down beside him, softly ensures, “You’re not alone, I’m right here.”

In more ways than one….

“Your eyes are like melted chocolate. Milk chocolate.” He scoots closer yet, like he’s mesmerized and magnetized by Paul’s eyes. Then his gaze travels to his left cheek as he brings a hand up to touch it, stroking it. “Your face is white chocolate. Feels it, too.”

“Not plannin’ on eating me, are you?” Paul teases, covers John’s hand with his own.

At that, John snaps out of the trance. Dissolving into another bout of laughter, he tips over onto the floor and brings Paul with him by the hand.

This time Paul succumbs to the contagion, giggling like a boy. He takes the opportunity to watch the happiness twist John’s tripping face while it still looks and sounds like John. His eyes close, eyelashes long and beautiful, and Paul wonders where his mind has taken him.

Soft-voiced, John whispers, “Boom boom…boom boom…boom boom,” and gives him a good idea as to where.

Smiling, he grabs John’s hand, sees a mirroring smile expand across his lips, and hears him mimic an accelerated, “Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom.”

With their fingers interlocked, they lie there on the cold floor—John staring at the ceiling, Paul staring at him—until colors at last begin to bloom behind his eyes and carry him on a phosphorescent cloud through his own mind.


	39. Sleepy Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous: “After that angst, I think I need some sort of fluff. Can we maybe have something with a very sleepy Paul just going on about all the things he likes about John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of posts and updates, y'all. school is taking a toll on me right now, but I'm still writing stuff and have lots of new things in the works! thanks for your patience
> 
> (this ficlet was requested after I wrote that angsty one shot "Julia")

“Oh no you don’t,” John says when Paul starts to slump more heavily against him. He shrugs his shoulder and, consequently, Paul’s head. “I’m not luggin’ your great bulk home. C’mon, stay up.”

Paul groans and turns his head even further into John’s shoulder. “I’m bloody exhausted,” he complains.

Every other night it seems like their gigs run longer than usual. One of these nights they won’t even be able to catch the last bus home. 

John sighs exaggeratedly. “They only ever want me for my body.”

“It is a nice one,” Paul mumbles drowsily.

He smiles, leans his head back against the seat. “Well go on, then.”

Paul chuckles quietly. “Nice thighs, cute little freckles on yer shoulders n’ all—”

“Alright now, they’re not _cute—”_

“Strong arms, gorgeous eyes,” he finishes, then tilts his head to look up at John with sleepy eyes. His eyelashes are blacker and thicker than the night engulfing them…even easier to get lost in. “But it’s not _just_ that, y’know.”

“Aye?” John says, even though he doesn’t entirely know how to handle the compliments. At least not when they come from someone who actually means something to him. Paul has a way of wrapping every one of his insecurities in the loveliest of garments, convincing even John that the loser in the mirror isn’t so much a reflection as it is a projection.

“Mhm,” Paul goes on, head still a pleasant weight on his shoulder. “I liked your playin’ tonight, all those jokes you told as well.”

The only reason John ever barks into the microphone like a maniac or jumps on stage wearing a toilet seat around his neck is to hear that one specific laugh in the packed club. And every night he has to top whatever insanity happened the previous one just so Paul’s laugh is louder than before.

He glances down at him again, but this time his eyes are shut.

“Oi,” John whispers, laughing softly.

“‘M just thinkin’,” comes his murmured excuse. Then, “The way you look at me across the stage. Makes me feel like the only one in the club.” 

Smiling to himself, John leans his head against Paul’s, kisses his hair. 

“I love your kisses and your hands.” He holds John’s hand between his own, tracing the veins running like cerulean canals over his fair skin. Vaguely John notices the likes have progressed into loves and a glowing warmth webs through his chest. “I dunno, I just love _you.”_

“I love you too,” he whispers with a tender kiss to Paul’s forehead.

And in this safe blanket of night he’s fully prepared to start a list of his own—ticking off everything that makes him fall deeper in love everyday; but the bus bumps to a halt before he can even draw the breath to start. For a second he considers riding it to the next stop just so he has time to make a few mental stops of his own. 

But then Paul stands from the seat, stretches like a cat with another yawn stealing his breath, and waits for John to go ahead of him. He slips out of the seat. Having Paul curled up properly in his arms in bed will be a better time to tell him anyway.

As they head down the aisle, Paul tells him from behind, “Oh yeah, and you’ve got a great arse too.”

John sends an echoing laugh through the empty rows, and the list only grows.


	40. Milkshakes by the Seine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous: “Mclennon in paris with some good john and paul fluff”

A cool breeze wafts the smell of freshly baked bread from the nearby bakery downriver. They watch the boats disappear under them and sail into the lilac sunset. Just when John starts to think nothing is more perfect than Paris, Paul’s voice ripples into his ears like the water flowing below them. 

“You know this is  _ your _ birthday, right?”

“I’m aware.”

Paul takes another drink from his second banana milkshake of the day, then asks, “So why do you keep spending money on  _ me?” _

“They’re just milkshakes, love,” John laughs. “Can’t exactly say you’re dryin’ me out.”

“But all I’ve got you so far is a lousy hamburger.”

“That’s ‘cos you don’t have a hundred pounds, do you? I’m sure you’d be splurgin’ on me a bit more if you did, right?”

Paul smirks around the straw between his lips. “Yeah, I’d be buying you  _ two _ hamburgers then.” 

“Alright, give us that, ye cheeky bastard,” John says and snatches the milkshake from his hand.

“Oi!” Paul protests with a laugh.

“Clearly I’m spoiling you  _ too _ much.”

He makes a grab for it, but John jerks it away. “C’mon, Johnny, give it back.”

Taking a few sips of his own, he walks backwards down the street, eyes still on Paul. But he’s ready for the chase, can see it shimmering amongst the hazel in Paul’s eyes as well. And sure enough, when his foot takes that first step forward, they’re off through the streets.

John cackles as his feet pound against the pavement and every sight and sound of Paris drifts in and out of his senses like the boats on the Seine. He holds tight to the milkshake in his hand, but knows that isn’t what Paul really wants.

A hand fisted into his leather jacket causes him to lose the lead, and, still painting the buildings with his laughter, he stumbles into the mouth of an alleyway. Paul pins him against the brick wall, a smile on his lips and his hair beautifully tossed by the wind. Everyday of their holiday it seems he’s looked like that—disheveled by John or the city or the excitement. 

John doesn’t want to take him home looking any other way. 

“Give it back,” Paul says, eyes shining and breath shaken.

Voice low, John tells him, “I don’t think you deserve it,” to which Paul pecks him on the lips.

“How ‘bout now?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

He kisses him a hair longer, their lips moving slow and rhythmic. “Now?”

“Closer.”

And, as the kisses trail down to his neck—nipping teasingly at his skin, it touches John that Paul would humor his daft games. Chasing him to Paris, chasing him through the streets, chasing him to the ends of the earth. Always chasing.

With a final kiss below his ear, Paul lifts a questioning eyebrow.

John smirks. “Almost there.”

Steadying a hand on his jaw, Paul leans in for a deeper kiss. The combined taste of bananas and cigarettes and macarons probably shouldn’t be as intoxicating as it is, but John revels in it. His free hand rests on Paul’s waist, keeping him close. In a million different alleyways in a million different countries, he wants to kiss him exactly like this.

He’s so caught up in the moment he nearly forgets he had been running for a reason. 

When they part he finally hands Paul the milkshake, which immediately gets tossed farther down the shadowed alley and splashes along the ground. A smile spreads slow and beautiful across Paul’s lips like they’ve stolen the sunset, and John can feel the fading warmth as he leans back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who would be interested in some smuttier ficlets, I'm gonna be starting a separate collection called Smutlets. It only felt appropriate to separate the pure from the filthy. so be on the lookout for that if those are your thing and feel free to start sending any requests to my tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> always accepting requests on [my tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com) (it's just a matter of how long it takes to get to them). if you don't have an account but still wanna reach me, my email is hbeatthreatt@gmail.com 
> 
> thanks for reading, and never be shy to reach out! ❤︎


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